It had been the loneliness, at first, that had drawn him to it. He had spent one too many nights without company on the trivial missions that Dumbledore thought he was capable of when he felt the first crawling sensation of ambition. James and Sirius were duelling daily, gaining respect within the Order that even some of the Aurors could not match. Remus, too, had been busy, disappearing for weeks at a time and coming back to meet with Dumbledore behind closed doors, in meetings that Peter was not privy to. And soon, the fear began to pervade his thoughts when he was left waiting, watching for hours at a time. The more he thought about it, the more hopeless he felt about the Order's cause. It was when death had fallen on them for the third time that month, when the Prewett brothers had been obliterated, that Peter visited that dusty shop in Knockturn Alley, clutching his decision with shaking hands, ready to relinquish his honor and receive the much more comforting safety.
There had been moments of regret welling up since then, which Peter had swallowed back down like a harsh tonic. One night after the holidays were over, when he had been drinking with the three of them, Peter thought about changing his allegiance once again. But when he had returned home to an empty flat, he remembered how alone he was and swore not to have another moment of weakness.
October 31st. Peter did not even think of it as Halloween, he had been holed up in this old cottage in the country for so long that he did not think to celebrate as he would have done enthusiastically just one year before. He stared miserably at the floor, dragging his foot back and forth through the layer of dust that covered the old mangy boards. He thought about making himself a pot of coffee, but did not rise. Instead, he imagined for the hundredth time that day, what would happen if he were to simply disappear and live out the rest of his days as a rat, in France perhaps, where the name Voldemort was seldom heard. He wondered if his old friends would notice his absence in the string of disappearances that had happened lately. Remus hadn't the time, he'd been making friends with the werewolves, according to Greyback. James had Lily and Harry, and only one reason to think about Peter, though Peter doubted he thought much about him regardless. And Sirius, well, Sirius would not forget Peter, though not out of fondness for him. Since the war had begun and Peter had gone into hiding, Sirius had taken to showing off his latest conquests in the form of Order updates, which Peter could barely hide his dislike for. He was expecting a visit from Sirius later on to catch him up on the latest news this evening; more deaths, no doubt, though Sirius would of course try to manipulate the story and make it seem as if the Order had a strong advantage. Sirius always did that, thought Peter. It was as if he thought that by saying things were getting better, it would make it true. He would not even dare voice his suspicion of Remus to James, which Peter knew was growing every day, with a little help. Peter had so looked forward to visits from his friends, but he grew tired of them as time went on. James and Sirius were so proud, he thought bitterly, and what would it bring them? Pride would not save him from death, thought Peter with a shudder, as he felt the familiar burn on his forearm. He drew up his sleeve and pressed a finger onto the foreboding skull with a resigned finality.
He had expected the terror he felt when he had first laid eyes on Lord Voldemort to diminish eventually, but it had, if anything, grown worse with time. He was a mere man, but Peter did not see him this way. There was something about his manner, his spellcasting, his way of speaking, that felt grand and intimidating, and made Peter cower in fear. He had seen him do things he could have scarcely imagined when the war began, so when Peter realized that he was alone with him, he thought he had been summoned to his death. Instead, Voldemort looked away from him coldly, giving him no greeting, and began to speak.
"You know why I have called you here, Pettigrew." he said, and Peter felt himself flinch at the sound of his name. "Your time to prove yourself has come. Only you can break the Fidelius Charm now, and put an end to this meaningless rebellion." he paused lightly, still not looking at him, holding his wand still at his side.
"My Lord, the Order trusts me still. I could be of use to you in other ways." he trembled, his heart beating rapidly in his chest. He knew he had been delaying this moment for far too long, but could not help but recall his promises to James, to Lily, to the Order. He briefly felt his conscience flutter within him, and considered being defiant, but was stopped short.
"This ends tonight." Voldemort said dangerously, his wand hand twitching slightly. Peter let out a frightened squeak, remembering how easily he had killed with that wand before.
Voldemort turned and looked at him, his cold dark eyes meeting Peter's watery blue, and suddenly it was easy for the words to leave his mouth.
"Godric's Hollow." he whispered, his voice barely carrying across the room. "They are at Potter Cottage, on Church Lane."
Voldemort smiled for the first time since Peter had met him, and left the room in a cloud of black smoke, leaving Peter in the room, tears streaming down his face. He allowed himself a moment to mourn, no longer, and left as well, ready to complete the plan he had created so long ago.