You wake up to a small, dirty room and rip off your mask. (I just killed my best friend.)
You hold a breath while remembering every laugh, every crooked smile, every look that he gave you before he died. You try to convince yourself that they deserved it; that they deserved death. But your stomache disagrees and you rush into the grime covered bathroom to the toilet, silently vomitting up your last meal and blood. Tearing off your robes you're forced to wear (No. No. No. This was my choice) you clutch the porcelin and start to sob but the only thing that erupts from you are goosebumps and insane whisperings of self assurance. Your grip on the toilet loosens and you fall to the floor, naked and depressed and hysterical. And confused. Five minutes that feel like five hours goes by and you wonder when they'll find their dead bodies and the boy's live body and your single finger. (Sirius will know. He always suspected something. He will know. I know it.) As you pick yourself off the floor, you put on a clean cloak and limp to the window to watch the sun rise like you do every morning. It has been a routine since Hogwarts and you need to see that sun rise. You need to know it's another day and you're still alive and you still have a chance. Just as you see the beginning of a ray over the horizon, a sickening pain arises from your left arm and spreads like poison throughout your body.
You scream. He's calling. You quickly put on your cloak.
You almost walk out the door, almost. Until you realize you're forgetting something. You locate it between the toilet and the wall and swiftly pick it up, wipe it off and put it on. It's that vile mask that condems you to a life of slavery; to a life of a Death Eater. As you walk out the door you realize you noticed: (I didn't watch the sun rise this morning.)
Peter Pettigrew woke up to a small dirty room and ripped off his mask. But the truth is: he's always worn one.