Written in 2009 for a LDWS short form challenge, prompt was "Laughter" and I believe stipulated 1st person, if my memory serves.
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There was something strange happening in my chest.
I first noticed it in those first heady moments after Voldemort fell, this pulling, bursting sensation just below my ribcage. As I embraced Harry in joy and Ron in hope, it was there, turning and pushing like a living thing, a Beast that struggled to burst out of me.
And, then, it stopped, disappearing as we talked, covering again over the familiar ground of Destiny and Horcruxes and Prophesy. This, I knew. The familiarity of a puzzle, a danger, and sorrow returned me to myself, and the Beast settled down. Odd, really, that such Big, Important, Scary things had become so familiar that they became my touchstones of normalcy. I wondered if this is how it would always be, a strange balance of unsettling calm and accustomed chaos.
Harry was smiling then, softly and thoughtfully, and that odd feeling came back, the Beast pulsing and pushing somewhere inside of me. What was this? Had I been hit with some rare, slow-acting curse? Perhaps I was injured...dying, even. Or, maybe, just maybe, I was going insane.
"I've had enough trouble for one lifetime."
My obsessing interrupted, I stood there, watching as Harry headed towards Gryffindor tower, muttering something about sandwiches. My hands clutched at my chest, my throat...all in a futile effort to silence the writhing Beast as I processed what was happening.
Harry. He had walked into danger yet again, this time accepting death willingly for the sake of saving all of humanity from a vicious madman. And, after pain, and loss, and unspeakable violence, the Boy Who Lived? Lived. And now, he wanted a sandwich.
I turned to Ron, meeting his sharp, blue gaze, and opened my mouth to comment on the absurdity of it all, and it happened. The Beast broke free with a terrifying shriek and roar.
The sound tore at my ears, the whoops and yelps and raspy gasps of breath. As it continued, on and on, I became aware that it was actually me that was making this foreign noise.
I, Hermione Granger, was laughing.
It wasn't a sardonic chuckle or an embittered smirk. It wasn't the shallow giggles of momentary escapism or the nervous sniggers of loneliness and embarrassment. This sound, this Beast from inside me...it was a howling, deep, wrenching bellow of real laughter. It was the sound of absurdity, of struggle, of a life that had defied all rational definitions of normalcy for so very long.
Ron couldn't have looked more terrified if I'd been crying. This notion, of course, made me laugh even harder, until the shrill yelps gave way to shuddering sobs and choked snorts. I was weeping then, big, wrenching tears that rolled down my cheeks and tumbled unchecked down my neck. I grieved - oh, how I grieved - for fallen friends and family, for my own pain and injury, for the happy youth that none of us got to experience. I don't know how long I went on like that, lost in a tide of hysteria and emotion, but, eventually my sobs stilled to sniffles, and I found myself standing there, rather embarrassed, looking up into Ron's concerned eyes.
"Feel better?" He asked, his voice rough and worn. His face was very wet, and I wondered when he had joined in my weeping. I shrugged and felt my cheeks heat as I struggled to regain some sense of dignity.
"I'm sorry. I'm afraid I went a bit mad for a moment there."
"Hermione..." Those blue eyes felt like they could see straight through me, but I held his gaze. "That was probably the sanest thing that we've done for weeks now."
I was laughing again, then, this time gently and freely. This laughter was a promise. This laughter was hope. My hand slipped into his, and we followed Harry up the stairs, content in the wordless softness of our shared laughter.