A sharp rustling sound pulled the sleeping boy from his quickly forgotten colorful dreams. His right hand, out of habit, fumbled on the bedside table, searching for his glasses. Finding them and putting them on, Harry looked around—the blindingly white room appeared blurry and unclear, as if he hadn't put his glasses on at all. Near the head of the bed, a tall figure in sky-colored robes with a very long white beard was moving. The figure was rummaging through a crinkling pile of something on the table and putting things into its mouth. Even though Harry couldn't clearly make out the figure, even through his glasses, the most likely visitor could only be one person—Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster. The voice that came from that direction also belonged to him:
"Ah, Harry, you're awake, my boy. Apologies if I woke you, but you have a huge pile of gifts here—they're from your admirers," the tall figure walked past the lying boy and sat on the bed near his feet. "Chocolate frogs, Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, sugar quills... Forgive me, I couldn't resist trying one of the beans, but unfortunately, I got earwax flavor, and strangely enough, it reminded me why I stopped eating them."
A panicked voice screamed in the boy's head:
"Harry? Who's Harry? What Harry... And why can't I see properly, what's wrong with my glasses?" The boy's thoughts raced through his mind like icebergs in a warm current. His world was filled with unusual confusion. "I'm not Harry, I'm Tom, Tom Riddle! My name is… Tom..."
Another voice in the boy's head, like a ship's horn in a closed space, roared:
"I am Harry! Who are you, and what are you doing in my head? Get out! NOW!"
In a surge of uncontrollable fear, the boy slapped himself, hoping this would snap him out of this absurd dream, but his hand moved too forcefully, and his glasses suddenly learned how to fly—too bad, only to the wall. A sharp "Clink" notified everyone around of the unfortunate fate of the veteran glasses.
The surprise that the world became clearer and more contrasted without them was boundless. Under what felt like a microscope, he could now see even the tiniest cracks in the ceiling of the hospital wing. Looking at the professor sitting in front of him, the boy was able to clearly make out all his wrinkles, the old man's freckles, and warts on his face for the first time.
Suddenly, a faint ripple crossed the face of the old wizard, creating an old-new appearance of the man. The boy watched in astonishment as the changes unfolded, catching every moment—at one instant, it was the wrinkled face of the present time, with a fluffy white beard tied with a bell, and then it seemed much younger and smoother, the beard redder and trimmed shorter. A kaleidoscope of faces, familiar-unfamiliar, familiar-unfamiliar… old-young—the headmaster's features shifted, though most of them remained concealed by the beard. For a few seconds, his face seemed distorted by fear, then pain, sadness, suspicion. The headmaster's piercing gaze, untouched by the cheerful smile on his lips, dragged out of the boy all his hidden fears, all that he dreaded and never wanted to face.
Realizing that it was precisely this narrowed gaze that made his heart nearly leap out of his chest and his hands tremble continuously, Harry decided to feign a headache to escape the professor's persistent attention. Grabbing his head with both hands, he collapsed back onto the pillow and quietly moaned. The old headmaster rose from the boy's bed, taking a little more time to observe the suffering first-year student. Then, without saying a word to the matron witch, he silently left the hospital wing.
Immediately, the concerned Madam Pomfrey took his place.
"What happened, Harry?"