Thought Peter deserved some attention, even if it is by my maiming hands. :)
Peter Pettigrew woke up to find himself lying prone to the floor. He blinked several times, trying to gather his senses.
Where was he?
His thoughts skittered around his head for a moment before he pulled out the grim information.
Dead.
He was dead.
Pushing himself up, Peter noticed that his right hand was back. There was no scar, no mark showing that he cut it off. He looked at his left arm.
The Dark Mark had disappeared.
Not knowing what to make of this, he stumbled through the mist, which slowly disappeared, revealing a platform.
A train station.
The small man approached the train, which was puffing out little wisps of steam. Its gleaming red passenger cars were inviting, not giving off any feeling of despair. Through the clear windows he could see faces pressed against the glass; each had a different emotion etched across their face, though none was filled with uncertainty. Some of them wore robes, but most, it seemed, wore Muggle clothing.
A guilty feeling nagged at Peter's heart, though it was not the first time.
How many people had died at the hand of the Dark Lord, his master?
Slowly, Peter entered one of the cars and found an empty compartment, careful to avoid eye contact with anyone.
Peter looked back through the window. The mist reappeared, only it obscured where he came from. Oddly, Peter didn't feel upset. He knew this day would come sooner or later, whether the cause was friend or foe.
Which was ironic.
He had spent his entire life flitting from person to person, trying to find a place where he would be safe. There was never much self-confidence in that stocky figure; he could never support himself without insecurities gnawing at his head. So the loyalty that could have been one of his better qualities was quickly snuffed out.
At Hogwarts, Peter found great friends. Sure, he only started to hang around them because there was James, popular and smart, Sirius, handsome and cool, and Remus, quiet but intelligent; however they grew on him and eventually they became best friends. They were the Marauders: notorious and mischievous, together through thick and thin. But Peter had snapped those bonds as easily as breaking a twig.
As the train pulled out and began to chug towards an unknown destination, Peter's thoughts wandered to his maste–, no, Voldemort.
He had thrown away his friends just so Voldemort would spare his life.
It was sickening, thinking about it.
At first, Peter made up excuses. Voldemort was killing everyone in his path – he was going to kill me! What could I have done? What could I, little Peter, weak little Peter, have done? He let self-pity and a false hope fill his heart. He thought his misfortune was so horrible, worse than anyone else's. He thought he could escape by trusting a murderer.
In the end, Peter just died. He could have died for James and Lily or been killed by Remus and Sirius, but that would not be fair. He was a disloyal coward. He deserved no less than being murdered by his own master.
Remorse slowly filled his body. Not having to fear death anymore, other emotions capped over were spilling into every fiber of his being. The faces of James, Lily, Sirius, and Remus flashed one after the other in his mind. Tears welled up in his eyes, making the mist outside look even blurrier. Silently, he wiped them away.
At least he had not killed Harry.
Yes, he was still alive.
Having himself die rather than Harry was a small drop in the bucket of repentance, but it was a start.
The train lurched to a stop. Outside, the haze gradually vanished. Peter now saw an ocean of faces looking at the train. He gasped as he recognized some of them, people who had died already.
The passengers of the train began to file out, eager to be reunited with old faces. Peter, however, got up slowly. He was afraid of seeing his old friends. What would they say? What would they think?
Peter looked back out the window and saw James, Lily, and Sirius. The couple was looking content, but Sirius seemed rather disgruntled.
Were they waiting for him?
He shook the thought out of his head as fast it popped up.
Even if they were, Peter could not bear to face them again. Coward. That was what he was. And if he did join them, the memories of his betrayal and the consequences would always float around, unspoken or not. It would not be a comfortable group.
He laughed at himself. Excuses, excuses, he thought.
Peter was Peter and would always be Peter, after all.
Without further hesitation, the man exited the train quickly like a rat, careful to not be noticed. He disappeared into the crowd.