Hogwarts was just as Harry remembered it: large, looming, and altogether magical. Seeing it had been the first time that he fully believed that there was not only a magical world out there, but that he was a part of it—that, as Hagrid put it, "you're a wizard, Harry."

In his current life, with Neville holding tight to the side of the boat across from him and Susan Bones and Hannah Abbot sitting behind them, it had just the same effect, just the same impact. It was its strange mixture of soothing calm, empowering regalness, and enigmatic aura that made it so awe inspiring, and the sudden but absolute silence around him echoed the feeling as the 1991 first years crossed the lake to Hogwarts.

It was only as they finally hit land, though, that Harry began to understand the true power of Hogwarts.

Alert!

You have now entered a warded zone. While within this warded zone, you will gain the additional advantage of "Hogwarts' Protection", which will work to defend you against a direct and severe magical attack, should you face one. This advantage will only apply while you are within Hogwarts' wards.

Huh.

So that's… cool. Explains how he survived against Quirrell the first time, at least.

"Harry, is everything okay?" Neville asked. Harry blinked, suddenly realizing that he hadn't moved since receiving the notification.

"No, I'm fine. Let's go catch up." Harry said. The two of them followed the rest of the class into the entrance hall and, after a brief encounter with ghosts, into the Grand Hall.

More importantly, he followed his class all the way up to the Sorting Hat.

This was it.

This could be the end.

It had occurred to Harry, several months into his second life, that the Sorting Hat had been the first to ever read his mind. Not only that, but, unlike all of his other brushes with mind-reading, this one could not be circumvented by occlumency or outright avoiding the situation: Harry had to go under the Hat. So this was the moment that Harry had been waiting for—either "new management" would have to outright act in his favor, ensuring somehow that his secret wasn't found out, or else the Hat would in some way alert the wizarding world at large of his circumstances, and he would be shipped off to the Unspeakables or some other equally mysterious group, where he wouldn't have to worry about anything anymore.

In front of him Professor McGonagall unrolled her student list, calling out the first name: "Abbot, Hannah!"

Harry peered around the room. The students were the same—dividing sharply into four houses, each only clapping, only reacting, to first years who got into their own house. The Professors were the same, too; those who didn't teach the first years were half asleep, while those who did were busy surveying their new students and talking amongst each other as each went under the Hat.

The eyes in the Great Hall were the same too, even if they seemed more blatant this time around: despite his lack of scar, he couldn't help but notice their constant discomfiting stares, their whispers, their not-so-subtle pointing… he wanted to believe that was just because he had gone door to door on the train (which, given its apparent peculiarity, he was fairly sure was a part of it), but he knew that if he hadn't been so oblivious the first time he would have seen the very same eyes, the very same results of his unwilling fame.

He wondered what their eyes would feel like when—if—he wasn't sorted, or if the Sorting Hat outright shouted "imposter! Imposter!"

The ceiling was as pleasant as ever, the starry night a beautiful backdrop for the upcoming feast. So were the banners and chandeliers which dotted the Grand Hall, fluttering and glittering above the wizards' and witches' heads. Harry even thought he saw Fawkes perched on one chandelier, but the phoenix blended in so well with the flames that he couldn't be sure.

Harry wondered if Fawkes knew his secret. What the bird could and could not do had never been well explained to him, so the idea of Fawkes somehow being aware of Harry's 'temporal displacement' wasn't completely idiotic.

Dumbledore didn't seem to be paying him any more attention than he had the first time, at least—his ostentatious robes commanded attention, but his own eyes were fully focused on the child currently being sorted (he clapped for each of them, looking genuinely pleased no matter where they went, but Harry knew that at least some of that was fake, a veneer.)

Snape, on the other hand, did not even seem pleased when the Slytherins got sorted. Honestly, he looked more tired than Harry remembered, but it was hard to tell if that was because something had changed or because he hadn't really been focused on the bags under the Potion Master's eyes the first time around.

"Hopkins, Wayne!" Professor McGonagall shouted. She'd moved on to the Hs.

Harry pulled his pointed hat down a bit. Maybe this was a bad idea. He wanted to run away, to hide in his cupboard until the uncomfortable feelings in his chest disappeared. He really should have thought this through more, instead of deciding to leave it up to management. What if he had been supposed to find a way around it? What if, because he had not, the entire world would be bulldozed over ala the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy? What then?

"Li, Su!"

So far everyone had been sorted into the house they had been in last time. It had taken a bit longer on Malfoy then he'd remembered, and the time taken on Hermione was actually a bit quicker, but currently Neville's was going on as long as it had the first—oh, and there he went to Gryffindor. Good. Harry was sure he would have done well in Hufflepuff, but Gryffindor was what had really forced Neville to tackle his flaws outright. Harry would just make more of an effort to help him along the way, this time. Hopefully.

Hopefully—hopefully he would be able to stay. He hadn't been thinking like that years, months, days ago, but just as time seemed to drag on longer and longer the closer he got to donning the hat, his thoughts seemed to be drastically changing in relation to the same variable too.

Before all he had thought about was how nice it would be, how relieving it would be, to not carry his burden any longer, but now all he could think about was what he wouldn't—might not—be able to accomplish. Second lives were weird like that, he guessed.

"Patil, Padma!" Professor McGonagall shouted. Harry's jaw clenched.

He wondered if there was an afterlife. That was something he hadn't really thought of, before. If there was, what happened to the already dead people's souls when management stepped in? Were they shoved uncaringly into their younger bodies like Harry, but with their memories wiped out? Or were they utterly destroyed, and replicas made to form this odd experiment?

For that matter, what was the point of management's actions, anyway? They were apparently willing to destroy lives by transporting only a select few back in time, but the same few were also told they had the chance to save everyone they knew if only they tried.

Was management lying? It was hard for Harry to believe they were just giving them this chance, willingly. What purpose would they have, anyway, for doing this, given that they apparently had the power to manipulate reality in any way they wished?

Was it a game? Harry knew simulation games were gaining in popularity in the muggle world, and many of them were the type in which it was impossible to directly control the tiny people on the screen. Was management simply playing him, playing everyone, like a game?

"Perks, Sally Anne!"

Time was running out and there was little Harry could do.

Blaise Zabini was standing next to him, now. Harry barely remembered him, honestly. He wondered what he was like—he knew the reputation his mother had, and there had been (as far as he knew unsubstantiated) rumors that Blaise enjoyed crossdressing, but as an eleven year old he was simply a boy with a brush cut and startlingly green eyes.

Huh. He had green eyes. Another thing Harry hadn't noticed.

On his other side stood Lisa Turpin. She'd ended up in Ravenclaw, if Harry remembered correctly. He wondered if she was a bully. He hadn't really paid attention the first time, but he had certainly heard enough from Luna to know that Ravenclaw was practically teeming with them. Hell, the only difference between Ravenclaws and Slytherins was that while one focused their fangs outwards, the other seemed to find particular pleasure by clawing their own face off.

Merlin, Hogwarts was wonderful. And the Sorting Ceremony may as well have been a 'pick your own torture' ceremony with the options available. Harry had no doubt that Hufflepuff had just as many problems underneath the surface, even if they were generally ignored too much for their issues to be visible to the rest of the school.

Which was not to say any house was purely bad. Hell, even if he'd ended up going to Stonewall, or Smeltings, or wherever else, he knew that no place would have been perfect, would have been without any issues. But in Hogwarts? Where there was little to no adult supervision, where danger lurked behind every corner, where all the students had access to magic?!

Yeah, Harry would honestly have preferred a bit more effort from the professors.

"Potter, Harry!"

Harry's eyes snapped forward. There was no time left, no more distractions. He took one step, then another. In front of him Professor McGonagall stood, holding the grumpy Sorting Hat as she waited for him to take his seat.

Quickly Harry began to give short prayers to every higher being he could think of—management, God, Allah, Buddha, Vishnu, Hekate, Merlin—and as he sat on the stool he knew every single thought that he brought into existence was useless, his lives, first and second, being proof enough that if there was anyone in control of an afterlife they probably didn't give a shit about him.

As the Hat descended, though, Harry couldn't help but give one last prayer, this one to Death, the Death that had given his ancestors the Elder Wand, Resurrection Stone, and Invisibility Cloak; that Death, at least, he had some immediate proof of.

But what if that same Death was the one who had been replaced by management?

The Hat fell onto his head, half covering his eyes. Harry was too afraid to move it.

And then…

Silence.

All-consuming silence.

Where was the Sorting Hat's voice? His critiques of Harry's life? His loud, long awaited accusations of lies and fraud?

Where was the sound of anything, anything at all, that would end the silence?