A/N: All rights to JKR, I'm just having fun trying to puzzle out Peter's betrayal. Warning for mild swearing.
Enjoy!
Turning Coat
It wasn't some grand scheme, really.
The first time Pettigrew was approached, it was on a windy night in March 1980.
He was prepared to leave his newly-rented flat, to attend the month's Order meeting. With boots half-laced, Peter was searching for his keys. He happened to pass in front of the window, but he failed to notice the lingering figures in the opposite side of the street. Two looming figures, whose dark apparel billowed with the violent gushes of air that wheezed ominously as it shook the windows' glass panes and the branches of trees.
When Peter finally gave in and used the summoning charm to get his keys, he locked his flat door behind him and took the stairs down to the main entrance of his building.
The figures were hooded. They also wore the signature Death Eater mask, while standing openly there, uncaring for what muggle passerby's would think. But why should they fear? They had nothing to fear. They were feared in turn, and quite rightly so.
Peter gave a startled cry and immediately ran back into his building. He broke at a ran, never looking behind, huffing and puffing as he took as many stairs at a time as his short legs allowed him.They're right behind me, they've followed me inside, I should have locked the door, I should have put up wards, I should have checked out the window, I should have been more athletic in school, oh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—He invaded his own flat like a stuttering, panting and heavily sweating bull. He barricaded his flat door by summoning practically every single piece of furniture he owned.
Peter's heart was thrumming in a desperate beat,why? he was wondering.Why come after me, I'm nobody, I'm no one important, I'm useless, I'm weak, I'm stupid, I'm no fighter, no ace up anybody's sleeve, I'm…
Safe. Peter was always safe that way. He could hunch behind stronger characters, like James and Sirius, and they'd protect him, because they were the fighters and Peter nothing more than their shadow. In the haze of his half-conscious, self-hating tirade, Peter backtracked until he hit the furthest corner of his dark, shabby flat.
He struggled with summoning a patronus on a good day, and his flat wasn't connected to the floo yet, both for security reasons, but also because he had just moved in last month. His friends had helped to ward his flat, rendering him unable to apparate from within. His persecutors were about to barge in any moment now, he had no other way out, no portkey on his person, his hand was trembling violently around his wand, fucking up his already shaky aiming skills. He was alone, helpless and hopeless.
What a mess he was. Why would they target a useless mess, such as him? Peter had started crying now, while imagining how his friends would laugh at his sight, all sweaty and wheezing by his own clumsy attempts to defend himself. He was amusing, wasn't he? Why kill an amusing person? He was much better use to everyone alive.
He could explain that to them. He could make them see how useful he could be. They would keep him alive, and he'd repay them in some way or another. It would work just fine, as long as his friends never learnt about it.
He would explain it to them, when they barged in at last. Peter stood on his dark, lonely rented room, panting, trembling, waiting. As his panic started to abate, his ears focused on something more than the frenzy beating of his heart. Silence.
Well, not silence, exactly. The upstairs couple were arguing loudly again, the baby from the next flat was wailing as it always did. The lady downstairs had her television on full volume, as she always did at this time in the evening. But no ominous sound could be heard. Peter's eye fled to the window.
They were still standing there, watching straight at him from the distance. They had not moved, neither did they seem willing to. They were just standing there. Forgetting the Order all together, Pettigrew stumbled towards the glass and stared back transfixed. He didn't want to make a fuss out of nothing, people were already whispering behind his back how he was too much of a sissy to be a Gryffindor.
The men in the Death Eaters' masks gazed at him through his window pane for a final moment. Between one blink and the next, they had apparated away. They hadn't come to hurt him. Peter wasn't stupid not to realise it. They could have remained unseen and strike him down in the moment he least expected it. There must have been other reasons that brought them here...
Was it possible that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named wantedhim, of all people?
Peter arrived at the Order meeting more than an hour late. He apologized profusely for his tardiness, he exchanged pleasantries with everyone. He felt quite the Gryffindor for not moaning over every little grievance. Of the two stalkers, he didn't breathe a word.
Nobody paid much attention to him anyway, to suspect that there was anything amiss.
The second time Pettigrew was approached, was months after the first. By then, summer was in its peak, the Potters had just had their first child, which Sirius had already baptised "pronglet".
Peter decided to walk home after a drinking night spent with Sirius and Remus, since his flat was close and he hadn't really gotten the hang of apparition; especially in his mildly intoxicated state. He shouldn't wander alone at night, a more sensible man would have reasoned, but Peter was a big boy now. He was a member of the Order, he was more than capable to take care of himself.
That's why when two men, faces hidden under masks, came to a halt a couple of feet in front of him, he almost fell over with fright. Yes, Peter knew how to take care of himself, that's why his breath stuttered and his legs turned to jell-o. That's why he slowly started to back-track. And he was about to turn on his heels and break into an open run, when his back collided with a third guy's toned sternum.
Peter panted and barely registered their cruel toothy grins. Peter cowered when they threw him in a side alley and cornered him with his back to the wall. Peter didn't even think to grasp for his wand; Peter just answered every question they posed.
"The Longbottoms, they have a child?"
Yes, Peter nodded and stammered.
"Born in July?"
Yes, Peter rushed to give them the particulars. When and where and how small it was and very sweet. The Death eaters laughed and poked him, and Peter's shocked brain registered the nudges as full blows in the gut.
"The Potters? They have a child?"
"Yes, yes, a son," Peter cried, curling himself into a ball and covering his head with his hands, afraid they would strike him down. "A lovely boy, a wonderful son, born in 30th July, just a few days ago, and he's the most lovely boy, the apple of their eyes!"
Never had his voice resemled more that of his animagus form. He heard the men whisper among them curtly and impatiently. That's why Potter's mudblood hasn't been to Auror training, they said, and the Longbottom bitch as well. They had seemingly forgotten his presence as they talked to each other, and Peter tuned out the conversation and started to look for an escape route. That was when a hand closed around his neck and banged his head on the wall behind him.
"You leave by the grace of our lord, you worthless piece of shit," they said, shoving them against the wall. "Hear that, you worthless cunt? Our Lord sends his regards. Bear that in mind."
And just as they had appeared, they disappeared.
When Peter dragged his trembling body to his flat, only then did his mind start wondering what all these questions were about. Why would the Dark Lord care about Order members' offspring? It was disturbing to consider, but what could poor Peter do?
He talked to nobody, of course. What would be the point?
Peter couldn't care about playing the Gryffindor anymore. This time, it would reflect really badly on him if he talked. If he told his friends how readily he had blabbed about their offspring, he would be cast aside, left unprotected for the Death Eaters to descend with death and torture.
No, Peter thought as he slided down against his flat's door, locking it as his legs finally caved in. He couldn't breathe a word of this.
The third time contact was made between Peter and the Death Eaters, it was October 1980. Most importantly, it was Peter the one who initiated it.
He ventured consciously into the grimy pub of Knockturn Alley, where one could find all kinds of services to please their bodies, their vendettas or their ambitions. Peter dared to sit down on the bar, between a werewolf and a hag. Nervously, he attracted the barman's attention, a one-eyed wizard that was all skin and bones under his tight, leather, sleeveless tunic. Peter received a shot of Ogden's and hissed it down sip by sip. He drown his nerves on firewhiskey, while he bided his time.
The Order was worn down, death struck more and more muggles and wizards alike. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was the indisputable winner.
It wasn't long until Peter managed to attract the wrong kind of attention. Or the right kind, depending on the definition. Right and wrong are quite relative terms after all.
Pettigrew the Rat turned coat, so he would not be skinned out of it.