When Peter looked down at the boy in front of him, he expected to see a version of the terror he felt inside himself. He expected to see the face of someone who yearned for the cold earth his friends were buried in. After all, there was no life without James and Lily, no life without the Marauders. But when Peter looked into those emerald eyes, he found himself facing the very friends he'd betrayed. He saw James, strong, full of vitality, brave. He saw beautiful, kind Lily, courageous as ever, defiant, powerful. He saw Sirius, exhilarated, determined, passionate. He didn't see the shell of an orphan he'd been imagining all these years, he didn't see what he felt; lonely, guilty, frightened. He resented this child for reminding him of the life he could've had, alongside these wonderful people. And so Peter looked down his wand at the boy and he readied himself to murder another person who was braver, better, more loved than he was. But Peter was brave, for the wrong reasons, and Peter was loyal, to the wrong person, and Peter let himself think just for a second what his life could've been, who he could've been. And in that second, for the first time since he'd scuttled to Lord Voldemort that rainy October evening all those years ago, Peter knew. Peter really knew that he'd been wrong and Sirius had been right. You should've died! Rather than betray your friends! He should've died. I should've died. He should be dead. With that thought the grip on his wand slackened, his own hand drew itself to his throat, cutting off his lungs from the dank dungeon air. Yes, Peter thought, let me die. Let me die and let him live, and let him win. Peter begged with the God he'd stopped believing in, let James and Lily's son triumph and let me die. Peter met death just as he'd met Lord Voldemort, pitiful, cowardly, begging for a life. At least this time it wasn't his own.