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Harry Potter was a hero, they said. Harry Potter would save us all, they said. Harry Potter was going to kill the Dark Lord, they said.
For Peter, Harry Potter was everything he'd ever done wrong. Every mistake he'd made, every time he'd turned his back on his friends, on his family. Harry Potter was there to mock and remind Peter of his mistakes.
There were others that represented his misdeeds, such as Remus Lupin, or Sirius Black, but none as much as Harry Potter.
He'd never intended Azkaban for his old friend. He had meant to kill Sirius that night. It would be an easier fate than Azkaban at least. But Sirius had always been more powerful and more intelligent. So Sirius would have to spend all those years in Azkaban, wrongfully accused of a crime he hadn't committed, living in a cell he hadn't been sentenced to, if only so Peter could survive.
He'd never intended for Remus to be alone all those years either. All those transformations. He'd meant to kill Remus too. It would be an easier fate than being thirty and being the only one left from their school days. But Sirius had confronted him before he could kill Remus. So Remus would have to suffer through his miserable life alone with no friends, if only so Peter could survive.
And most of all, he'd certainly never intended to Harry to be raised unloved and unknowing of magic. The Dark Lord was supposed to kill Harry along with James and Lily. It would be an easier fate than being thrust into a world that loved him purely because his parents had died while he hadn't. But the Dark Lord had messed up, and Harry would survive that fateful Halloween. So Harry would have to live a life not knowing his parents or their friends, and be called crazy and a liar, if only so Peter could survive.
But no, that wasn't right. Peter had had the chance to kill Harry, on that fateful Halloween, and he'd spared him.
When he had felt the magic drain from his Mark, he hurried to the Potters'. The cottage was blown up, and James had been laying lifeless by the stairs. Peter remembered forcing himself not to cry. This wasn't his fault, it couldn't be. He just knew how to survive, and so he'd done it. It wasn't his fault they hadn't had that same preservation. Yes, that was what he told himself. He wasn't sure he was convinced.
Upstairs, there were two bodies. One belonged to a redhead with the fiercest eyes, now lifeless. The other belonged to the Dark Lord, Voldemort, or, as very few knew him (and Peter was not one of the few), Tom Riddle. After a moment's hesitation, he bypassed them entirely and headed straight for the crib.
"Wormy!" Harry had squealed happily.
No, this couldn't be, the Dark Lord had died, but not the baby? No.
"This is for the best Harry," He had raised his wand and baby Harry had gurgled. Peter had lowered his arm. "I can't. I'm sorry."
All this ran through his mind as a now seventeen-year-old Harry pleaded with him. And because of that, he hesitated.
His metal arm reached up and started strangling him. As the life drained from his body, he thought, he looks just like James. But his eyes are all Lily. Maybe that's why he never could bring himself to kill him.