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He was tired of living with ghosts. He was tired of the hollow eyes, tired of the silent funerals and tired of his haunted self. He was tired of being trapped inside the body of a young boy with eyes that had seen a war so ruthless that his soul was that of a shriveled old man.

Harry Potter was tired of living with ghosts.

Sometimes he had random bouts of hope. Warm and fresh and curling around him like the flowers from Aunt Petunia’s garden. He hoped to go back to the world of freckled faces and red hair, to the tight hugs and warm brown eyes. To the world where they were just children and not soldiers. But that also meant that he would have to go back to the world of deaths and nightmares.

He had been raised like a pig for slaughter.

All to defeat one of the greatest darkest wizards ever seen by the Wizarding World.

His parents had died so he could live, and he had lived so he could die. He had come to terms with that a long time ago, surrounded by darkness and by light in a forbidden forest. If you asked Harry, he would tell you that dying in that clearing had been quick and refreshing. Not unlike a strong gust of wind.

But coming back to life had felt like his soul was being torn apart by the hands of Death itself. He had suppressed the pain at the time because the only thought that was in his head was about the war, and the people, his friends - and oh dear Merlin, it hurt so much.

And when it was over, he had felt nothing but an all-encompassing numbness. He had felt like someone had hollowed him from the inside out and had left him begging for the pain to come back. He had gone to his dorm feeling like he only had half a soul.

And as it turned out, he did.

The small, minuscule part of Voldemort’s soul in him wasn’t small at all. It had stuck to him, had begun to spread inside him the moment it was put there. Like a parasite, it had spread and twisted in his soul to the extent that when it was torn apart, a big part of Harry had been torn apart with it.

It wasn’t Hermione that had told him, wasn’t something Snape’s memories had told him. It was Death that had told him that his soul was just as torn as Voldemort’s once was. The stone came, the wand appeared in his bedside table and he never had the nerve to do any harm to his father’s cloak. And Harry Potter became the Master of Death.

Wasn’t it ironic? He was the same as the man he had spent his whole life trying to kill. He might have gone a little mad, he might have done something he would deeply regret, and he might have destroyed the world—if Death hadn’t given him a chance.

Death—with his cold presence and rattling breath—had said, “Do not be saddened, Master, for you have suffered enough. I would help you regain your soul. You will be sent back to the body that received a part of his soul and to the time he was first brought into the world of the living. You two must live a different life. You must live, my Master. For neither can live while the other survives.”

And with a snap of Death’s bony fingers, Harry James Potter was sent back. Back to where it all started.

Merely a day after the birth of one Tom Marvolo Riddle, a new inhabitant arrived at Wool’s Orphanage for orphaned children. The matrons were still a little anxious over the happenings of the day before so no one really questioned much about the baby left on the orphanage’s doorsteps. All that was there was a small boy with jet-black hair and a peculiar scar on his forehead that was shaped like a lightning bolt. The new matron, a young woman named Mrs. Cole, had screamed horribly when she had gone to pick up milk the next morning and found a pair of green eyes watching her solemnly.

The cold corpse of the woman who had birthed a beautiful boy just the day prior still laid on a flimsy cot near the hall, and when Mrs. Cole passed it with the green-eyed child in her arms, she didn’t notice how the young toddler’s eyes stared intently at the dead woman. As the sounds of children in various stages of waking buzzed in the background, Mrs. Cole made her way to the head matron’s office. She couldn’t help but wonder what was written in the letter that had arrived with the boy with the lightning scar.

Knocking on Ms. Kate’s office door, she entered the well-lit room when asked to come in. Ms. Kate was an aged spinster. She was a kind woman, but Mrs. Cole personally thought that she was too soft on the kids of the orphanage. According to Mrs. Cole, children should always have impeccable manners and the fear of God in their hearts.

“What is it, Mrs. Cole?” Ms. Kate’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts, and she realized she still had to inform the head matron about the child and the letter. The child was still in her arms, quiet and still and not making a peep unlike other children his age.

“Ms. Kate, I found him on the doorsteps with nothing but a blanket and this letter here.” Mrs. Cole held out the letter, waiting for Ms. Kate to take it.

Ms. Kate stared at the child in her arms and he stared right back at her. “Let us see who this handsome boy is,” she said as she walked across the room towards the unusual child.

Mrs. Cole watched silently as she took the letter from her hand and waited patiently, curiosity simmering in her guts. When Ms. Kate finally looked up from the letter, her eyes were wide and the corners of her mouth had tightened.

“Do we have enough room for another child?” Ms. Kate asked, her voice sounding strange.
Mrs. Cole nodded hesitantly.

“Very well then, run along and make room for our new ward.” Smiling a strained smile at the boy watching her, Ms. Kate said, “Welcome to Wool’s Orphanage, Harry James Potter,” and dropped the letter in the fireplace.

Once again, Harry Potter steeled himself for a life in a world of ghosts.

Harry Potter was a very well mannered child. He never cried and never made any trouble. The matrons adored him with his messy hair and green eyes. One thing about him was that little Harry had a tendency to wander off on his own as soon as the matrons took their eyes off him.

In the first few months of his arrival at the orphanage, this habit of Harry’s was a little endearing. But soon enough even the most soft-hearted matrons were becoming frustrated with the two-year-old toddler. Instead of smiling exasperatedly if not fondly, the matrons started frowning whenever Harry disappeared. He never stepped out of the orphanage, for he was still younger than the other children, but he scrounged through the small building with such determination that it almost seemed like he was trying to find something or rather, someone.

And almost a year after his arrival at the orphanage and a year of unrelenting wanderings, Harry finally found what - who - he was looking for.

And almost a year after his birth, Tom Marvolo Riddle stepped out of the nursery with small wobbly steps and determination shining in his eyes. Tom Riddle stepped out of his cramped nursery looking ready to take over the world and promptly crashed into a boy with jet-black hair and earnest green eyes.

From that moment on, Harry Potter was seemingly attached to the younger boy by the hip. No matter how much the smaller boy frowned and glared, Harry refused to leave him alone. And finally, when Harry’s insistent obsession with the younger boy seemed to grow much bigger than that, the matrons had to move in Tom’s things—which weren’t much really—from the nursery to Harry’s small bland room.

Tom had almost cried in anger and frustration as Harry Potter smiled smugly at him.

Tom never really talked to him, but Harry wasn’t surprised when his first word turned out to be ‘No’.

Growing up again was a strange experience. He was small and weak and not much older than five. Learning to walk, talk and fight again had been frustrating, but despite all of the shortcomings of living in the past, Harry couldn’t ignore the fact that he felt whole again. Like someone had taken his torn pieces and gently and painstakingly sewed them back together.

Growing up in an orphanage was somewhat similar to growing up with the Dursleys. But it was vastly different too. He never had to do as many chores, never had to be as hated, and he never had to feel worthless and undeserving of every bite of food he took. The orphanage was poor and never had the luxury of good food, but Harry ate what he got, and if that wasn’t enough, then the small perks of being the master of an omnipotent being worked in his favour.

The orphanage was dark and dreary, and the matrons that were once young and kind had become sharp and stern with age. The children, on the other hand, were so young and vulnerable that every time Harry looked at their oblivious smiling faces, it hurt something fierce in his chest. They didn’t care much about the war going on in the world. All of them were just innocent little children.

All except Tom Riddle.

Growing up with Tom Riddle was painful for him. He had the act of smiling at the face of his enemy perfected, but it was getting harder and harder to maintain it with every breath he took. Sometimes he could pretend to think of Tom as nothing but a child - and, Merlin, he really was just a little boy. Not like the others, never like the others. Underneath the smooth face and clever eyes, Tom Riddle still lived in a world where he wasn’t hated by everyone.

Though that may change sooner than expected, Harry thought darkly as he watched a group of children his age approach Tom in the backyard. He ran to intervene before things got out of hand, before the children were hurt. (Because Tom was capable enough to hurt children older than him, Harry knew.) Even though Harry stood up in front of Tom and defended him from those kids, Tom didn’t give it a second thought before pushing him down and walking off after Harry had fallen face first on the ground.

At small, mundane moments like these, Harry remembered the man Tom would one day become and was hit with such overwhelming guilt and anger that he felt like he couldn’t breathe. To grow up with the man who had killed countless innocent People - killed his parents - was painful for him.

Growing up with Lord Voldemort was painful for him.

But I would never let it happen, Harry thought as he watched five-year-old Tom Riddle reading his alphabets and plotting to rule the world. I would never let him become the man he had become. I would never let him become Lord Voldemort.

Tom Riddle was a strange child. He was silent, deadly and vicious. He was all the things that three-year-old boys were not supposed to be. For a small and weak child, he was unusually feared by the other children of the orphanage. Not outright, but the subtle ways in which the others went out of their ways to avoid him showed it all. It wasn’t subtle at all to Tom. He had always noticed children and adults alike giving him uneasy glances and treating him with thinly veiled disdain. Everyone avoided Tom Riddle.

Everyone except Harry Potter.

Harry Potter was genuinely earnest, overly nice and stupidly stubborn in Tom’s personal opinion. And he never bothered to hold any personal opinions, so it was rather known to everyone what he thought of the older boy. For as long as Tom could remember, Harry had always been there. No matter how many times he hissed or glared at him, Harry had stuck to Tom’s side since the day he could walk. It would have been sweet if he wasn’t so irritating.
He was fond of Harry, Tom could grudgingly admit that. The boy had made his life easier in some ways. He was stronger and bigger than Tom’s peers. Especially the ones who liked to cause him trouble. And Tom could admit that Harry wasn’t as useless as he looked.

Maybe I can use that to my advantage, Tom mused as he glanced up from his book of alphabets.

Harry was sitting on his bed and reading a book with a peaceful expression. His face supported small red scratches from when he had been caught in a fight with a group of kids his age.

They weren’t from the fight itself; there was hardly any fight at all. The group of bullies had cornered Tom and some insults were thrown around. And like any other time, Harry had come to defend him. His face had been dark in righteous anger and his fists clenched tightly. Tom had thought for a fleeting second that he had looked only a billowing cape away from being a hero. But the significance of the part that he played in this impromptu fantasy had left a sour taste in Tom’s mouth, and in his anger he had pushed Harry with all his might. Which wasn’t much really; Harry had barely stumbled a step. But unfortunately for him, his foot had caught on a rock and Harry had fallen right on his face.

Tom wondered whether he ought to feel bad for what he had done to Harry. He had left as soon as the group of bullies had scattered, and Harry was far too surprised to do anything. But Harry had come back smiling like nothing had happened and had gone straight to sleep.

That had been this morning, and after some thinking, Tom had admitted to himself that maybe Harry might have some use. As much as he loathed playing the role of the victim (he refused to even think of the word damsel), Tom wasn’t physically strong. Yet.

“Alright, Tom?”

Tom startled in surprise and found Harry watching him with a warm smile and sharp eyes. He smiled back at Harry and in his friendliest voice said, “Yes, I am well.” And then he went back to reading. A wave of satisfaction rose in his chest and he let it wash over him in the silence of the room. Yes, Harry would be a useful tool.

Some years passed, things changed and Tom Riddle and Harry Potter became a little closer. Over the last two years or so, the dynamic between the two raven-haired children remained relatively the same. Except that Tom got slightly cleverer and slightly more feared, that Harry remained as righteous as he always had been. Except that the two boys were almost always found together, talking in hushed voices and thinking about the future ahead of them, that Harry always helped Tom with his chores, that Tom always had slightly bigger servings of food on his plate and that Harry was one of the first children to finish their food.

(Tom had looked at Harry with startled brown eyes when the older boy had first pushed almost half of his food onto Tom’s plate, but Harry had just winked and explained that “They give more to us older ones.” When Tom had pointed out that everyone got equal meals, he had leaned in and told him conspiratorially that 'that’s what they want you to think.' Tom hadn’t said anything after that, but Harry had looked at him with an oddly warm smile and said, “Don’t worry Tom. I get by.”)

Harry and Tom were inseparable. Harry stuck with Tom, and Tom allowed Harry to become his minion. Harry had smiled and indulged the smaller boy when one day in their room Tom had put down his book and with a determined air about him, declared that he accepted Harry as a loyal follower and expected only his loyalty and usefulness in return for his great presence.

With a dry sort of amusement, Harry had thought that it would have been a lot more adorable if he was just a five-year-old boy and not destined to become a Dark Lord.

The other matrons noticed the closeness between the two boys, and so did the children. For reasons Harry could probably fathom, people disliked Tom. And as the closeness between the two boys grew, so did other people’s disdain towards them. Another thing was that Harry wasn’t as disliked as Tom. It might have been because the two boys were vastly different from each other. Harry was one of the most righteous and gentle people Tom knew, and he knew how to control his magic.

But unlike Harry, Tom wasn’t cautious of showing his true power and he wasn’t afraid to assert it. Even at such a small age, Tom was cold, calculating and cruel. And he never bothered to hide it. He would hurt anyone who dared to cross him - and Harry - and then he would smile this slow, satisfied smile when accused of his crimes. He wasn’t above hurting his peers and making them tremble in fear, but he never did such things around Harry. Whether Harry knew what Tom liked to do in his free time wasn’t any of his business. His work would just be easier if Harry wasn’t privy to it.

Harry had known about Tom’s vengeful streak since he was a little boy. He had talked to Tom when he had found Billy Stubbs’s rabbit hanging from the rafters, talked to him when he found out about Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop, terrified out of their minds and refusing to say a word. All of those talks had ended with both Harry and Tom red in the face and screaming at each other.

Harry had refused to talk to and even see Tom after the seaside trip incident, and after more than a month of stubborn silence from both boys, Tom had finally apologized to Harry—and Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop on Harry’s insistence. Harry had tried to make Tom see that his violent thirst needed to be abated, but Tom had waved him off, saying something about Harry being his moral compass.

After that, Tom tried not to be overly cruel and Harry tried not to be overly overbearing. The two boys’ friendship worked on deals and negotiations, and they were content with that.

When Harry first started attending the elementary and above - level classes taught by Mrs. Adams - one of the few matrons who had experience in teaching children - he honestly hadn’t wanted to go. It was unnecessary and a waste of time. What had changed his mind was that his weak muscles needed to be reacquainted with writing and the fact that there wasn’t anything better to do. Not until Hogwarts at least.

There was also the problem that spending so much time with Tom was starting to affect him. As the days passed, he started to see Tom more as a small - if somewhat devious - child and less as the monster he once was.

He knew that Tom Riddle wasn’t Lord Voldemort, but it would be stupid of him to think that Tom Riddle was anything but an innocent child. He had seen Billy Stubbs’s rabbit hanging from the rafters, seen the terror in Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop’s eyes when they had returned from one of their annual field trips. He knew why the children who used to bully Tom and him couldn’t even look them in the eyes without going white as sheet.

The images of Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort were similar is such little ways that they had started to become blurry around the edges until Harry couldn’t recognise the child from the monster.

Harry went to the classes if only to have some time away from Tom and his conflicting images. If Tom noticed the reason behind Harry’s sudden fascination behind grammar and math, he brushed it off. Tom had business Harry wasn’t privy to and he didn’t like the idea of Harry finding about his unusual friends.

Tom and Harry did spend most of their time together, but outside their shared time, Harry talked to children and Tom talked to snakes.

The year when Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop were stricken mute with terror after a field trip with Tom, the year when the only thing Harry and Tom did was fight, and the year when Ms. Kate was found dead in her room was also the year when Mrs. Cole found out about Tom and his unusual friends.

As far as orphanage head matrons came, Mrs. Cole was a practical woman. She knew when to talk and what to believe. She wasn’t one of those overly religious women per se; she just had a healthy fear of God. She may have missed some visits to the Church now and then, but she knew something abnormal when she saw it.

Tom Riddle and Harry Potter arrived at the Orphanage some seven years ago. Mrs. Cole had watched them for seven years, and she knew that there was something wrong with them. Something wrong with him. Harry was just unlucky to have made friends with Tom Riddle; she was sure of that. He was a nice boy, always polite and never getting in any trouble. He was very unlike Tom.

Tom.

Tom was the definition of abnormal. He was cruel and cold. His eyes were always sharp - like they were made of broken glass - and he was quick to hurt his peers. Abnormal things happened around him, freaky things. He was always loitering around the bushes, hissing at snakes. Wicked. That boy was wicked.

Harry didn’t notice the first time it had happened. He was too busy with his studies because it was the first time he was allowed to score more than Dudley in elementary school, too busy with his worries, because he would be eleven in a few years, and what would he do when his letter surely came, and too busy with not noticing, because it wasn’t his job to notice everything.

To tell the truth, Harry was too busy making excuses.

Tom was held back that day by the head matron, Mrs. Cole. She had said something about Tom offering to help her sort out the records. And Harry hadn’t questioned it. He had come back from Mrs. Adams’ classes, glanced at a sleeping Tom’s back and gone right back out. That evening, Tom had joined him at dinner without a word and hadn’t even touched his food throughout the meal.

Harry was there when it happened the second time.

Tom had been held back by Mrs. Cole that day too, and Harry had thought better not to ask when Tom had only looked at him with an indifferent face. He should have asked him. Should have asked why Tom was so unusually quiet and why did Mrs. Cole needed his help two days in a row when there was only a handful of records to be sorted through. But he hadn’t.

Halfway through his first class, Harry’s head exploded in pain. The pain was so intense that he had nearly screamed from it. And then the blood was trickling down his scar and other children were screaming too. Harry was running towards Mrs. Cole’s office long before Mrs. Adams could say anything about his bloodied face.

He knew something was wrong, something wrong with Tom. He hadn’t felt this much pain from their connection for nearly a decade, and Harry’s body wasn’t accustomed to such a level of pain. Pushing the pain to a dark corner in his mind, Harry started banging on Mrs. Cole’s office door as soon as he reached it.

When it became clear that the door wasn’t going to be opened from the inside any time soon, Harry pushed a trickle of magic into the door and it clicked free. He wasn’t concerned about the Trace on controlled magic, not when he was in such a hurried state. With a pounding pain in his head, Harry pushed the door open.

Whatever he saw in the office caused Harry’s mind to blank out for a brief second. For a brief moment, there was nothing but pure unadulterated rage filling his insides and slowly eating him inside out. There was almost half a dozen men with priest uniforms chanting and praying words that jumbled together in a cacophony. They were standing around a wooden barrel, holding someone - Tom - down under the water. And there in the far corner stood a stony-faced Mrs. Cole.

Harry turned to where the priests were holding a struggling Tom under the water, and without a second thought, his magic snapped up and spread around the room like a restless dog. The air became static and buzzed and all Harry could see was red. What were they thinking? Doing this to a child? Doing this to a magical child?

And suddenly, the origins of the Dark Lord became clearer. Anyone would have snapped if put under this torture every day. And it hurt to think that this was what Tom had to go through every day since he was seven.

The change in the air didn’t go unnoticed by the other occupants in the room. The priests who had brightened in eureka as soon as they had felt the shift in the air started chanting and praying with renewed vigor. Mrs. Cole blinked and looked towards him in startled confusion before a slow smile appeared on her stony face.

“What are you doing here, Harry? We are in the middle of very important work here, you see. You should go back to your classes,” she said with a parody of a gentle smile.

“What are you doing to Tom?” Harry’s voice came out dark with anger.

“We are helping Tom find the Lord’s path, dear. You see, Tom is very sick and we are curing him. You wouldn’t understand the process; after all, you are just a boy.” Mrs. Cole smiled indulgently at Harry.

How dare she hurt him. Harry couldn’t see past his anger even if he tried to. He wasn’t going to hold himself back and watch these monsters hurt Tom. His magic was rising, encompassing the room like a shroud of darkness. The door slammed shut behind him as the temperature of the room dropped to such degrees that frost began to spread over the window sills.

Mrs. Cole stumbled back as she felt Harry’s magic suffocate her, her face had gone white, and she seemed to have trouble breathing properly. Even the priests had stopped chanting and they were now looking at him with wide eyes.

Just then, Tom broke the surface of the water. Bound in ropes and knots, he was shivering madly and his breath was coming out in harsh pants. Blood dripped down from his naked back where the priests had crudely drawn some obscure symbols. And Harry was overcome by another wave of rage as red as blood.

“H-Harry?” Tom’s said, his voice trembling as much as him.

Hearing this, the priests turned back to Tom with a frantic air and stepped closer towards the barrel. But before they could start their chanting, a pulse went out in the room and they all dropped like lead. Somewhere in the background, Mrs. Cole shrieked. The awful sound echoing distantly in the back of his head, Harry advanced towards the group of men with thunder in his eyes.

They were weighed down by an invisible force and couldn’t utter a single sound. Watching them scramble on the floor and writhe like weak insects, a small part of Harry wanted to make them writhe more. But Tom was attempting to get out of the barrel - oh Merlin, a barrel - and Harry needed to get him away from these awful people.

“Harry,” Tom said, his voice sounding numb, “You are here.”

“Of course I am here.” Harry rushed to Tom’s side as Tom tried to step forward and fell on his knees, still bound in thick ropes. They were gone as soon as Tom was securely in his arms, and only now Harry noticed that Tom was trembling with equal parts shock and cold.

Mrs. Cole was still screaming, “What are you doing, you wretched boy? Stop this freakishness at once. We must expel the demon from his body, don’t you see? He is the Devil’s spa—” Her words trailed off in a wordless shriek as she too began writhing on the floor, but not from an invisible weight.

She was writhing in pain.

“Tom! Tom, stop it! We will deal with her later. Stop it, Tom,” Harry hissed at Tom who was watching Mrs. Cole shriek with the same blank expression as before. A few seconds later, Mrs. Cole stopped screaming, and only the sound of her heavy breaths and Harry’s soft reassurances to Tom filled the room.

When it became clear that Tom wouldn’t be going into hysterics any time soon, Harry looked at the head matron and let his lips curl up in a cruel smile. “You will never come near us and you will never touch Tom. If you ever try hurting him again, I won’t stop him from killing you. And he would do it, he would make you suffer through endless torture until you begged for death to take you.”

“They will find out. They will find out about your rotten crimes and your rotten souls,” Mrs. Cole croaked pitifully.

“Whoever will suspect us?” Harry said, a mockery of a smile playing on his lips and the shivering figure of Tom cradled close to his chest, “After all, we are just little boys.”

“You are like me.” It wasn’t a question and Harry hadn’t expected it to be. They were back in their rooms and Harry had done his best to treat the wound on Tom’s back with the limited first aid supply the orphanage had.

“Yes, I have known about this ability of mine for quite some time now.” He shot Tom a knowing look. “And you have too, haven’t you?”

Tom just stared back at him, and Harry knew better than to think that Tom Riddle could feel guilty about his deeds. Harry knew he couldn’t change the basis of what made Tom Riddle. Tom wasn’t Voldemort, but he wasn’t a sweet, innocent child either. Harry knew that Tom was brittle and cruel, and he had accepted the fact that he couldn’t change him. That didn’t mean that it would stop him from saving Tom from his crueler tendencies. He couldn’t change Tom Riddle, but he could change his future.

“What about them?” Tom spoke up again. The last word of his sentence was spat out like toxic venom.

“They would never talk about what happened in that room.” Seeing Tom’s unchanging face, Harry elaborated, “You know how Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop never said a word about what happened to them during the field trip?” Tom’s eyes gleamed in approval, causing Harry to smile exasperatedly.

There was a beat of silence.

Then, “Can you teach me?” Tom said. His face was alight with sudden curiosity, and the way his questions were delayed told Harry that he was slowly analyzing the events that had occurred less than an hour before.

“Teach you what?”

“How did you make them drop and writhe on the ground like insects? Ooh, were they in pain?”

“No, they were not in pain. You know I couldn’t hurt them.”

“So, will you?”

“Yes, Tom, I will teach you.” Harry smiled at Tom and his insides twisted with a sudden revelation. Not only was he becoming familiar with Tom’s little quirks, he was becoming almost fond of them.

The silence that fell this time was long and comfortable and Harry was content to bask in it. Tom spoke again right when Harry thought that he was done with his question. His head was turned away from Harry and he spoke in an oddly soft voice.

“Did you mean it?”

“Hmm?”

“When you said that you would let me kill her if she touched me, did you mean it?”

Harry let out a surprised bark of laughter. Out of all the things to be soft about, Tom had to choose those words.

“Yes, Tom, I meant it.”

Tom jerked his head towards him, and after many years, Harry had the pleasure of watching Tom’s face morph into one of utter surprise. There might have been a tiny flicker of irritation in those cold brown eyes, but Harry was too busy snickering like a nine year old to notice it.

Tom didn’t speak until after the lights had been turned off and they had gone to their beds. Harry had assumed he was extensively mulling over the day and hadn’t bothered him much. Tom’s voice carried through the stillness of their cramped little room, and Harry smiled when he heard him say,

"We aren't unlike young gods, you and I?”

"No. No, I suppose we aren't."