"The brown rat, also referred to as common rat, street rat, sewer rat, Hanover rat, Norway rat, Norwegian rat, or wharf rat (Rattus norvegicus) is one of the best known and most common rats.
One of the largest muroids, it is a brown or grey rodent with a body up to 25 cm (10 in) long, and a similar tail length; the male weighs on average 350 g (12 oz) and the female 250 g (9 oz). Thought to have originated in northern China, this rodent has now spread to all continents except Antarctica, and is the dominant rat in Europe and much of North America—making it by at least this particular definition the most successful mammal on the planet after humans. With rare exceptions, the brown rat lives wherever humans live, particularly in urban areas." - Wikipedia article; Brown Rat.
"Additionally, fancy rats are quite independent, loyal and easily trained, earning them comparison to both cats and dogs. This comparison is merited given fancy rats are considered more intelligent than any other domesticated rodent." Wikipedia article; Fancy Rat.
This is a story about a rat.
This is a story about a man.
This is a story about someone who was both.
This is a story about someone who was neither.
The story isn't very different from how you know it. It's just how you look at it.
Rats are known for being lowly, cowardly, filthy, and vicious.
It isn't true. Rats are loyal. Rats are compassionate. Muggle scientists have proven it. Rats feel sympathy. Even more important - rats feel empathy.
But Peter Pettigrew, resident cowardly Gryffindor, and recently outed rat, didn't know this. Certainly, his friends didn't. His friends - a noble stag, and a handsome dog - found his animagus form hilarious. Though he tried to laugh along, he was mad at his inner animal self. Why did he have to be something so...cowardly? Even his third friend, a werewolf, was hiding a grin.
"Typical Peter!" they laughed. "Of course he'd be something so cowardly and dirty!" and although they joked, deep down, he felt it must be true. Ones animagus form reflected ones personality, after all. James Potter, so proud, so arrogant in his good looks and status, certainly fitted a Great Prince of a Forest form. Unfortunately, proud pureblood that he was, calling him Bambi failed to get any kind of a reaction from him. Sirius Black - well, someone named after the Dog Star wasn't really surprised to end up a black dog. It suited him. Exuberant personality, larger than life, always laughing, playful, and with an aggressive streak inside him that always brought to mind a snarling dog, even before they started this animagus journey.
And Peter Pettigrew - he fitted his name. A small boy, with pebbles for brains, as James and Sirius liked to joke. He had so hoped to have a large, impressive form. He was trying to keep his friend the werewolf company, after all! Instead, he was a low down rat. How was he supposed to run with a werewolf as a rat?
And so, deep down, Peter found himself believing his friends' jokes. He was cowardly, lowdown, vermin. He wasn't worthy to run with his friends. All he was good for was spying, doing the dirty work. It was a good thing they had tiny Peter, to sneak into dorms, common rooms, the Whomping Willow!
Once upon a time, Peter was a brave boy. The Hat had wanted to send him to Slytherin - but had thought long and hard before deciding. It was his admiration of James and Sirius, those dashing clowns, and their declaration of anti-Slytherinism, that helped the Hat decide. Peter was a true Hatstall, and the Hat took preference into account in such tricky situations.
(The Hat still claims that he made the right choice.)
Of course, he never told his new friends that. He told everyone the Hat wanted Ravenclaw.
No one believed it. A bit of a duffer, was old Peter - he clearly was a closet Hufflepuff! Peter laughed, and was too relieved that no one picked him as a Slytherin to be offended that no one thought him clever.
Deep down, he believed he was a duffer, too. His Head of House never liked him. He suspected she despised him for lying about being a Gryffindor/Ravenclaw Hatstall.
She was still better than old Sluggy, who never noticed Peter at all, but lavished attention on James, Sirius, and Remus.
Becoming an Animagus was very difficult, but Peter never gave himself the credit for it. If it weren't for Sirius and James, he'd never have managed it!
If it weren't for James and Peter, Sirius would never have managed it in the same time. Even James, Transfiguration prodigy though he was, wouldn't have managed it as quickly without his friends. Somehow, this never occurs to children with low self-esteem. It never occurs to children with too much, either.
Peter wasn't stupid, or cowardly, or plain. But he believed himself to be, and believing is half the magic.
They worked on him slowly. A visit here, a visit there - slowly, Voldemort sympathisers convinced him of His infallibility. It was too much. And despair overtook the rat's heart, and he saw no way out. Voldemort was great, and terrible, and not even Albus Dumbledore with the twinkling eyes could defeat him.
Sirius was right. He did piss himself when he met Voldemort. But a rat is loyal, even when a rat hates himself, and he pleaded with Voldemort for one favour. His loyalty, and service as a spy, for a favour. The lives of his friends.
Voldemort would later agree to spare the life of the Mudblood Severus pleaded for. He would tell her to step aside, give her a chance. He valued Severus, as a Death Eater.
He sneered at the snivelling, cowardly man in front of him, and lied.
The Marauders would (not) live.
None of them did. All of them would die defying Voldemort, even the double-crossing rat.
For a year, Peter sold out his friends and comrades, and watched them die. Coward, coward, coward, chanted the voice in his head.
Cowardly rat! It screamed after the McKinnons had died, on his information.
The night Voldemort commanded him to deliver the Potters to him something in his mind broke, under the screaming of that voice, and he could no longer make out what it was saying.
That wordless screaming stayed with him for the rest of his life, no matter how he buried it.
He almost didn't say it, almost didn't remind Voldemort of his promise. Voldemort crucio'd him for it and coldly told him He never forgot once He'd given His word.
Peter was sorry Harry had to die. But James and Lily could have another child, and there was no way out of it. They might hate him, but they'd be alive. Maybe one day, they'd even understand, once the war was over. He presumed Voldemort would leave Lily alive as well, but if He didn't, well, James could remarry. It wasn't that he disliked Lily, but he knew he could ask for no more favours.
Both Peter and Severus pleaded for the lives of a Potter. Neither of them cared for Harry or the spouse, except for how much their Potter loved them.
Both of them switched sides to plead for the lives of the Potters.
Neither of them succeeded.
Peter was broken the night he led Voldemort to Godric's Hollow.
He'd gone too far, and nothing to show for it. Voldemort was vanquished, and he had killed James and Lily anyway.
But Peter was smart, and Peter was an almost Slytherin, and he had invested too much into surviving. A treacherous part of Peter had always known he was more cunning than Sirius, a part he squashed down, because it had felt ridiculous to think he was better at something than Sirius, and it was easy to trick him.
He didn't even feel bad about sending Sirius to Azkaban. He didn't mean to, of course. He thought there'd be a trial, and everything would come out, but that everyone would think he was dead and he'd have disappeared by that time anyway.
Living as a Muggle pet wouldn't be a half-bad life. He felt too numb to really care. But first he headed off to a wizarding village where he could hang around and pick up news. No one would be looking for him yet.
A boy fed him leftovers that were pretty damn good. He went back to that house. Plenty of food there. Wireless was always left on, too, very easy to pick up news.
He was surprised Sirius actually went to Azkaban. It was something else for the voice to scream at him about. At this point, why not screw Remus over too! Out him as a werewolf! Complete the full fucking set, you cowardly rat!
But he whispered to himself that Sirius must've done something to be convicted of. The headlines were calling him You-know-who's right hand man, so perhaps he really WAS a Death Eater. There was no way they wouldn't have pumped a supposed spy full of Veritaserum, to get names. Some Death Eaters already were singing like birds. He was just thankful none of the singers had known of him, since he was apparently posthumously being awarded an Order of Merlin.
At this point, he figured it was safe to at least move indoors. Young Percy was all for keeping him - apparently he was clever. And certainly not a wild rat, he can't be, he's far too tame and affectionate.
Emotions were a lot simpler as a rat. The screaming was dulled. The scab on his paw was healed. Life was comfortable.
He slept a lot. It was easier. He could pretend he was just a pet rat, and he had no worries greater than Percy's twin brothers.
It was escapism, but necessary. Without it, Peter would have fallen into insanity greater than Bellatrix's. The knowledge of what he'd done, and how he'd failed, and how many people would want revenge on him was too much.
He was always a coward. He ran from himself.
He ran straight back to Voldemort after escaping Sirius, Remus, and dementors.
He served Voldemort, body and soul. But his mind was his own, and he hated Voldemort with all that mind, broken as it was.
There was no moment of redemption for Peter. He died a coward, strangled by his (His) silver hand, punishment for not killing the boy.
He did not die a rat.