The room is silent and it is not. Machines beep in a manner which is supposed to be faint, but which is all too recognisable, and all too damning a sound, and the bustling hubbub of the world outside the room seeps in. Those that really matter, however, the room's occupants, are silent The silence, and the noise of the machine on their own are ominous sounds, but now, with the pair in harmony, they are hopeful. For certainly, those in the room have a reason to be hopeful; after months where there was just the silence, and after all hope had begun to fade, Albus had been found. The room barely dares to think of those that are still lost.

Unfortunately, even though they do not have to think, there are those, who couldn't bear to come today, and the general public, all too willing to think for them. Even now, one of the missing three swaddled on the bed in front of them, looking much smaller than his lanky, seventeen year old frame was, and the public having rejoiced his return, conversation has turned, all to quickly to the other two Lost Children, as they have so been dubbed, the faces of the two all too painfully absent from this gathering smiling painfully bright smiles from the front page of the prophet, the article screaming how there was absolutely no clue where they were. It is the painful reminder that none of them need, and as they gaze upon the beaten and bruised frame of Albus Severus Potter, their hope is bittersweet.

The noise of the room changes, machines thrumming, louder than they've ever been for the room's occupants, before falling dreadfully, expectantly silent, a red-haired witch screaming, her husband lunging for the button with which to summon a mediwitch. Equally as unexpected, is the machines starting again, and a pair of emerald green eyes slowly becoming visible under a mop of black hair. Once again, the redhead screams, and once again her husband leaps to summon a mediwitch, as a third, younger wizard sticks his head out the door, shouting down the hall, "He's fucking awake, you twats!" It is to the private surprise of everyone in the room that he receives no reprimand for such remarks.

It takes much less time for a mediwitch to arrive then those in the room think it does, strands of hair falling from her overly tight bun, mouth pulled in at the corners, and a little too overweight as she pushes her way through the gathered family, wand already glowing with a faint, rosy light. The mediwitch works silently for a few minutes, the machines fallen to the noise they were supposed to be at, and the family hardly dares to breathe, until she steps away, and their son's emerald eyes are once again in their line of vision. "He'll be okay," the answer is given softly, the voice somewhat too kind for her appearance, and it is as the mediwitch slips quietly out of the room that his family surges around his bedside, the two men on his left, and the two women on his right, Albus in the middle, the way that it had somehow been for every single family photo that he could remember.

His mother waits only a moment, watching for any flicker of encouragement, and the hope in Albus' eyes seem to be enough for her, her shriek muted this time, compared to the screams of before, and his father, her husband this time still, save for one hand that reaches out to gently clasp his son's shoulder, even as Ginny envelopes him in a hug, her fiery red hair brushing over his shoulders, and his withdrawal from its colour hidden as her lips find his way to his ear. "Oh Al," his mother's voice is heavy with tears that she is struggling not to shed, and he can feel her hands shaking as she tightens her grip on him, "my baby." She cannot continue, and those all too familiar fiery strands of hair are lowered closer to his face, Albus shuddering with his mother as she cries. Only, he is crying for those that he left behind.

His mother stops crying though, and quicker than Albus would have liked. It means that her his family's sanity just as much as his own, he needs to stop his crying too and with a last few shaky breaths, his mother having now pulled away, her hand trailing over the contours of his face, the boy finds his courage, so that it looks like he too was crying for their reunion. It is his turn now, he knows as well, to break the silence that has fallen over the room, tongue darting out over pale, cracked lips, and breath hitching in his throat as he opens his mouth, the words in his mind, and formed by his lips, but never escaping into the air.

This time, Albus is unable to stop the tears.