Had he known the prophesy would turn out to be about her, he wouldn't have told Voldemort. He's never felt like more of a failure. Never. He couldn't save her, he thinks as he sees their bodies sprawled out on the floor, their infant son creaming in his crib.
He steps over Potter without second glance, heading straight for Lily. Always for Lily. He perfect crimson hair surrounds her like a halo. And all he wants to do is hold her in his arms. It's creepy, he thinks briefly, before he acts on the fantasy. It's all he ever wanted to do, but never got the chance.
As he sobs over her body, all he wishes is that she was still alive. Even if that meant with Potter. We wishes they got the life of happiness she deserved. Even if it's with her husband.
He wants to die.
He almost does.