Disclaimer: I am not totally awesome, so it follows that I am not JK Rowling—I just adore her characters/world.
Defeated by the Darkness
Silver fingers were crushing his neck, and Peter was surprised.
Surprised that the boy he betrayed—not just once or twice, but numerous times: from a year before the Dark Lord's downfall, passing slivers of information to the Other side; to the Telling of the Secret; to killing a classmate, tying Harry up, and taking his blood—that this boy would be trying to help him, trying to pry the digits from Peter's worthless neck (worthless, yes, worthless—when was he ever any use to anybody; when was he ever more than just a burden, a little piece of vermin that was always underfoot?).
Surprised that Harry's friend—Peter's favorite master—the freckled boy with the lovably fiery hair and temper, would assist Harry in this act, even though Peter betrayed Ron too, by causing him to love the Thing that was truly unlovable, by fooling the child into thinking Scabbers was a gentle little pet (and biting Goyle could not make up for all the seeds of evil he had helped to sow).
Surprised that the Gift from his current master should turn so swiftly to punish Peter for his wrongs (oh, but he deserved it, had deserved it for so long—too long).
Surprised that Peter had released Harry at his words, that his impulse was to obey the child whose life Peter had destroyed (and yes, how he owed Harry, how he owed Harry and James and Lily and Sirius and Remus and Percy and Ron and Bertha and Cedric, but not the Dark Lord: he had given the Dark Lord his all).
And surprised that the cliché saying was right after all—his life was flashing before his eyes: sad memories, memories of evil, memories of loss (and a few pathetic moments of brief happiness).
Peter saw his childhood: toddling around on the floor and being scolded for accidentally tripping everyone, being yelled at, being told to get out of the goddamn way, kid, why are you always in my way? And wondering at what age the chastised became the chastiser (and please, let it be soon).
Peter saw his Hogwarts years, the pride he had felt when the hat cried Gryffindor! and the joy to be accepted, included in the coolest group imaginable. The excitement that coursed through him while participating in risky mischief, successfully becoming an Animagus, loping across the grounds on a stag's back next to a fierce, wild werewolf and a great black dog. The hurt that followed whenever they laughed at him for saying or doing something stupid, for showing fear in the face of danger, for his reluctance and submissiveness. The awe he had felt when he thought that the Marauders seemed to accept him (despite his evident flaws).
The anger that coursed through him, shortly after Harry's birth, Peter was finally able to take his hands away from his eyes and see reality: he was only the cowardly Jester; they merely put up with him because he made for a good laugh. The guilt that racked through him, in equal measures with relief, after he first made contact with Death Eaters: he had betrayed his friends (but at least Someone thought he was useful).
The honor that flooded through him when Sirius told him that he, Peter, the little tagalong rat, was to be Secret Keeper for the Potters. And the grief and desperation that knotted his stomach when he realized why—when he saw that even then—when he was an adult, a full grown wizard—he was still Nothing (nobody would expect the Potters to put their faith in little worthless Wormtail).
The triumph clouding his throat when he told the Dark Lord what he knew, when his new master smiled a mirthless smile and praised him—praised him—for his work. (The terror that clutched his gut when he suddenly, fully understood what he had done.)
The resolve that steeled his mind when Sirius confronted him, when Peter pulled his ace and escaped into the sewers (where best he belonged, the coward).
The love he felt for two little red-headed boys—first Percy and then Ron—children who loved him, cared for him, even adored him despite their complaints—dear Ron, who let Scabbers keep warm in his own bed, who fretted when his pet was ill, who didn't speak to his best friend for ages when he thought her cat had killed Peter. Remus was wrong, that an innocent man would not want to spend twelve years as a rat—Peter would love to be a child's pet for all eternity (if only Ron had been Peter's age, maybe none of this would have happened, maybe Peter would never have betrayed anyone, for he would not have felt betrayed himself).
The terror that clutched his heart when he realized Sirius was coming after him, when he realized that he had to pay for his actions, that he couldn't hide as a harmless, furry companion for the rest of his life, when he had to face the last remnants of a broken friendship (but he tried to escape anyway, and put it off for a few more miserable years).
The gratefulness that streamed from his eyes when the Dark Lord took him in, accepted him, used him. Finally, he was not a burden; finally, he might gain some respect, some favor (but oh, how repugnant was the ruined soul of his master).
The sorrow that weighted his limbs when the Hufflepuff fell, the fear that sharpened his senses when he desecrated a grave, severed his own right hand, and sliced Harry's arm open, crumbling to the ground sobbing in pain and terror (what had he done; what had he done?).
The power he felt when his fingers crushed a twig to powder at his slightest whim, and the later, terrible realization that next to the other Death Eaters, he was once again nearly entirely worthless (who can trust the traitor, the worthless coward, to never betray again?).
The anguish that brought him to his knees when Bellatrix Lestrange disclosed how she had defeated Sirius Black (and this, too, was Peter's fault—had to be Peter's fault—for Sirius would be alive were Bellatrix still in Azkaban, and if the Dark Lord had not arisen she would never had escaped).
The resentment that snarled at the back of his mind when he was made the-servant-of-a-servant (for Snape was right, the foolish rat had no standing with his master, was nowhere near as close, as honored, as he had initially, stupidly expected to be).
The silver fingers maintained a death hold, and Peter knew it was time. He had cheated death too long. He had been defeated by the darkness long ago, and there was no more escaping the consequences. His vision was blurred by fuzzy black dots—more and more of them crowding into his line of sight—and he sagged in Harry's and Ron's arms (he wished it could have been different, you have your mother's eyes and your father's face, Harry, and if only—if only—he had not been a coward; and Ron, do you ever miss your Scabbers, and did you know that the best years of his life were spent by your side?).