The day after Peter was discharged from St Mungo's, semi-healed and just barely yanked back from the brink of death, he made the most horrible, most selfish, and most fateful decision of his life.
He chose to live.
That evening, Peter braved his first unsupervised solo Apparition to travel to the massive manor in Wiltshire where he knew the Malfoy family lived. He had no idea how to contact Lord Voldemort himself, but he figured that a visit to the home of one of his top Death Eaters was a good place to start.
Once he'd made it through the manor's wrought-iron gates and been admitted into the residence, he found that Lucius Malfoy was gone, off on business for Voldemort, but his Death Eater sister-in-law Bellatrix Lestrange was staying in the manor with Narcissa; Bellatrix was all but ready to kill Peter on the spot before her sister stepped between them. "I—I need to speak to Voldemort," he stammered. "Please?"
Part of him still couldn't believe he was here, a Mudblood in the home of one of his greatest enemies; another part of him was surprised that it had taken this long. The pull of his friends and their cause had been enough to hold him back for many months, but nothing in Peter was stronger than his instinct for survival. It was inevitable that he'd end up doing this, he told himself; his recent life-threatening injury had only been the final straw. The thought made something ache deep inside of him.
Narcissa bound him to a chair, ropes snaking across his limbs and chest and tightening until his cursed wounds burned with pain, while Bellatrix used her Dark Mark to summon Voldemort. The Dark Lord materialized in the manor's drawing room a moment later, taking in the scene around him with chilling snakelike eyes.
"You've captured an Order member," he said to the Black sisters. "The weakest Order member, to be sure, but certainly commendable."
"No!" Instinctively Peter tried to stand, but the scream of his wounds forced him to settle back into his bindings with a wince. The Healers had told him that they'd take time to fully heal, that they'd leave nasty scars and hints of wolfishness behind, but he would never transform the way Remus did every moon. He was still mostly intact. Next mission, he doubted he'd be so lucky.
It was inevitable.
"My lord," he said, lips trembling, "I would like to take you up on your offer. I—I would like to join the Death Eaters."
The words seared his tongue like acid, almost strong enough to make him cry. Why was he like this—why couldn't he be brave like his friends? But he wasn't like them; he never had been. His friends should have known that—they should have known that this was his only chance to survive in Voldemort's world. Maybe they would understand.
Of course they wouldn't understand, Peter thought. They'd all hate me—even Remus. They've never understood me. He tried to summon up a bit of anger, anything to overtake the crushing guilt he felt, but it was useless. It wasn't his friends' fault that he was here.
Voldemort flicked his wand, and Peter's ropes dissolved away. "Would you?" he murmured, circling around Peter as if sizing him up. "You see, that offer was made to you and your friends as a group; I never would have made it to a talentless Mudblood like yourself without the rest of them. You're a member of the Order, certainly—but you have nothing of use to me that the Cruciatus Curse couldn't extract from you."
"I'm not talentless," Peter said, rising shakily to his feet. "I…I have skills that could help you."
"Skills?" Voldemort raised his eyebrows, and Bellatrix laughed loudly from behind him. "What skills could someone like you possibly possess?"
Peter gulped. Then, closing his eyes, he shrunk into the skin of his rat form, smooth and quick and seamless like hundreds of transformations before. When he changed back, Voldemort's eyebrows had crept even higher up his forehead, and Bellatrix had stopped laughing.
"You're an Animagus," Voldemort said.
"Yes," Peter whispered. "James and Sirius are, too. We…we all became them while we were at Hogwarts so we could help Remus when he transformed."
"Greyback said the boys had changed into animals the night they escaped his pack," Narcissa Malfoy said quietly.
Voldemort shook his head, his eyes still fixed on Peter. "I believed it to be the false drivel of an imbecilic half-breed who'd failed his mission, but perhaps he was telling the truth after all." He gave Peter a thin smile. "It seems I underestimated you, Pettigrew. Animagus magic is incredibly complex, especially for an untrained Hogwarts student. Maybe you aren't entirely worthless."
Peter lifted his chin, nodding. He knew that he never could have become an Animagus without an incredible amount of help from his friends, not to mention several years' worth of determination. But he'd pulled it off, just like he'd pulled off his first Patronus Charm a couple of years before that. He was no James or Sirius, but he was more skilled at magic than most people thought. Hearing Voldemort complement him was oddly gratifying.
"He's likely a spy for the Order, my lord," Bellatrix murmured.
"He's not intelligent enough to be one," Voldemort replied. "If they wanted a spy, they would have sent one of his friends. Besides, I don't intend to let him in on anything important. No; he can work as a spy for me instead." He stepped closer to Peter. "But first, boy, I would like for you to tell me what has brought you here. Not many Mudbloods request to join my Death Eaters."
Peter lifted his gaze to meet the Dark Lord's. "I'm done running," he said simply. "Joining you…it's the only way I can stop." Voldemort was the one who had made him so terrified, but he was also the one who could take away everything he feared. To no longer have to be afraid, to no longer have to fear death at every turn…there was nothing on Earth that could keep him from that, not even the Marauders.
Voldemort nodded slowly. "You are a coward," he said. "But I do not mind; under the right circumstances, cowards can be the most loyal of servants. And I can assure you that with me, you will never have to run from anything ever again, Peter Pettigrew." He raised his wand. "Hold out your left arm."
Peter rolled up his sleeve and obeyed, bracing himself for what he knew was coming next. Voldemort pressed his wand into the skin of his forearm and muttered "Morsmordre."
A sharp pain shot up Peter's arm, strong enough to make him scream and pull away. His eyes swimming with tears, he watched as a jet-black tattoo burned itself into his skin, a skull and a twisted snake. The Dark Mark.
"It is an honor to be branded with my Mark," Voldemort said; Peter quickly wiped away his tears and peered back up at him. "Not all my followers are, but I suspect you will prove yourself quite useful to my cause." His dark eyes glittered. "If I use the Mark to summon you, you must not ignore my call. There will soon come a time that I will require some important piece of information that only you will be able to collect. When that time arrives, you will provide what I seek; until then, you will continue on as an ordinary member of the Order. Do you understand?"
Peter swallowed. "Y—yes, my lord. I'll do exactly as you say." And he would; he'd do anything if it meant that he would survive another day. As pathetic as it was, he knew in his heart that it was the truth. If it wasn't, he wouldn't have been speaking to Voldemort in the first place.
"Good," Voldemort said. "You'd best be going; your friends will be wondering where you are. Do not fail me, Peter Pettigrew. You do not want to know what will happen if you do."
He spun around, allowing Bellatrix and Narcissa to give him servile bows goodbye. Then he whirled his robes and vanished, leaving Peter standing alone with the Black sisters and his Dark Mark and the terrible, overwhelming weight of what he had done.
