They felt bad for him. Poor Peter had never had a child of his age he could give the title "friend". Never before had anyone even asked his name until he met James, Sirius, and Remus. He met Remus first. A quiet boy, not truly shy, but would rather read a novel than waste time striking up a conversation. Until he met Peter. The two boys were riding the train first year, both nervous about fitting in. Peter because he was very unlike the rest of his family, or anyone else he knew. Remus because he had a problem no one could know about. Peter's possesions slid out of his hands, caused by force of the turning train. One book flew across the compartment and slammed into Remus's head. Remus smiled and, looking at the book, said, "That's a classic." And that was it. Instant friends. Then he and Remus met James and Sirius. They gave themselves names; Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs. The bond that couldn't be broken.
Or so it seemed.
The friends began to drift apart. Remus seemed fadingly distant, preoccupied with his troubles and woes, woes with which he always delt with before. Sirius had become obsessed with torturing Snape, and without Lily to protect him now, he had free-range. James had finally won Lily's heart. (James always got what James wanted.) Peter was left alone, helpless, cold. His friends had deserted him, and, as if such trouble wasn't enough, an evil man called Lord Voldemort was rising. Young Peter was scared; terrified. He didn't want to die, not so young. Having just graduated Hogwarts wasn't enough experience to readily pass on to the next life. No, Peter did not want to die.
There were times death seemed inevitable, especially after, on advise from his friends, Peter had joined the a society against Lord Voldemort known as the Order of the Phoenix. Fear ran through Peter's veins now, and cold panic caused his muscles to tighten and untighten occasionally, creating twitches. Fear, reasonable fear, began to rule his life. And why not? Being afraid is not an unrational thing to be. Admitting fear can sometimes save one's life, if one has the bravery to admit it. That's just what Peter would do.
It tore him up inside. Do it, don't do it. Be loyal, be disloyal. A friend, a traitor. Lord Voldemort wanted Lily and James dead. He wanted their young son Harry dead. They all knew it. Peter was secret-keeper to their location. He wanted to live, but Voldemort wanted them dead, and if Voldemort found out Peter was secret-keeper, then he'd be tortured, possibly killed. All he wanted was to live. There was so much he hadn't done, so much he was going to do. And if he died, what then? What about his poor, lonely mother who was all by herself? She would have no one if her only child joined her husband in death. That was torture she couldn't endure. And yet she would have to.
There is a point at which admitting fear is no longer bravery. That is when fear begins to control one's life, to rule it, to dominate it. Peter hit that point when he gave in to fear and went to Lord Voldemort. On his knees he fell, begging for his life like the worm he'd become. He begged, begged like a dog, for his own life, a life that hadn't truly been in danger. Lord Voldemort, cold, heartless, demanded the location of Lily, James, and young Harry. When he started to reply, the Dark Lord cut him off. He told him he could not yet believe the answers Peter gave him. What if he lied? What if Voldemort sent his men, his minions, to the address to find the entire Order waiting, just waiting, for them to arrive? Neigh, Voldemort asked favors of Peter. A lump formed in the throat of poor Peter Pettigrew as he whimpered that he would do as his master commanded. Yes, he said master. The end of the boy Wormtail, friend of Prongs, Padfoot, and Moony, was near.
Peter Pettigrew did all the favors his so-called master instructed him to do. Such dreaful things included spying on James and Lily, arranging rows between his friends, and even, when Dumbledore warned them of a traitor in their mist, making it seem as though it was Remus. There was only one favor the ring leader wanted before Peter was truly trusted; a Dark Mark on his arm.
Peter was terrified. For one thing, wouldn't his friends grow suspitious if he always wore long-sleeves? After all, it was only mid-October. Oh, right, Voldemort had him doing so for a while now. But would they sense a change in his behavior? Oh, right, they already had, but when James began speaking of it, Lily wouldn't have it. But wouldn't his left arm's sensativeness notify them? Oh, right, he hated being touched anyway. There were no loopholes; he had to do it.
The process was painful; it really was. Voldemort took his wand and burn, yes, burn, the mark into his victim, I mean follower, on the arm. Considering each Death Eater is human and humans have bone there, the pain was quite intense. Half-way through, one of the only two witnesses, Bellatrix Lestrange, whispered to the other, Severus Snape, "Wow, he's not quitting, is he? Well, we'll just have to embrace the lump then," she giggled excitedly, "He'll be one of us in only a moment!"
And then it was over. And then he was a Death Eater. And then he was asked once more where Lily and James were. And then he told them. And then, a few days later, James and Lily were dead. So was he, for all anyone would know.
Peter had thought up a plan for the night, for October 31st. He would meet with Sirius in the street, a muggle street. He would cut off his finger, kill muggles, and transform into his animagius form, a rat. Then he would run and leave Sirius for the aurors. No one would doubt it was Sirius; he was a Black, and Black's hated muggleborns. He thought it up all by himself. It was a good plan.
Sirius had met him. Sirius knew, oh, he knew well that Peter, not Remus, was the traitor. Only, Lily didn't believe it, and therefore James didn't, either. Remus also could never believe anything against Peter, even if it meant making it seem like it was himself. He really thought it was Sirius. Sirius was angry, furious, when he came. He demanded Peter confess and... and... and he didn't know what else. It was clear to Peter that Sirius wanted nothing more than for him to drop off the side of the earth, but Sirius wasn't articulate enough to express his emotions in ways that could be repeated. And then, no longer able to bear the physical and mental torment of having his former best friend hate him so, he activated his plan. His finger was left on the street. He killed muggles. He turned into a rat and fled the scene, hearing faintly the aurors as they appeared one by one to the scene and arrested Sirius.
And he was dead. Everyone thought he was dead, that Sirius killed him, which was what his plan had expected. But he was a live. But he was dead. The most important part of him had died; his bravery.
He was eleven years old when sorted into Gryffindor. When Professor MgGonagall cried out, "Pettigrew, Peter!" he almost fainted. Somehow, miraculously, the shy, timid boy was put in Gryffindor. But sometimes, being afraid, admitting it, is the bravest deed of all.