I add my thanks to lupinsmoon12391 for great suggestions and Mrs, Rowling for her wonderful characters and world that inspires the imagination.
The night's sky shone bright, light of the near-full moon reflected from silvery clouds. In the darkened shadow of an Elm tree, a figure stood waiting. Three hours he had not moved, except the slow rise and fall of his shallow breathing. His black cloak blended into the darkness. His face deep in shadow under the travelling cloak's hood. It was a cold night, a chill ran through his body, but he knew the weather was not the cause for it. His mind was as dark as his surroundings. He waited. He had waited the past three nights. A singular, focussed desire burned deep, eating at his heart. He meant murder. Cold, calculated, unadulterated murder. Any sense of guilt or forgiveness ripped from his breast by the actions of his target, his victim. Two nights left to carry though with his aim. He would be denied for another month if Peter Pettigrew failed to show. Rumours put Pettigrew in Godric's Hollow, the setting of his betrayal, a fitting scene for revenge.
Lights winked in a window of the small church nested amongst the monuments for loved ones passed. It was Peter! Nothing stirred, the breeze had even stopped to watch, tension seeping electric into the air, the near freezing temperature now no longer cold. The light from the church extinguished. This must be Pettigrew. It was said he was searching for something. Something the Dark Lord coveted. A figure showed in the doorway. It was he, no mistaking the small round figure. A momentary flash of moonlight gleamed brightly as Pettigrew's hand moved from the door to his side. Confirmed. Pettigrew turned, scurrying towards the hanging gate in his rodent-like manner. The shadow under the tree moved for the first time in hours. He knew his quarry would need to leave the village square to Disapperate to his master.
Passing in front of the Potters' dilapidated wreck that once was the warm, loving centre of their family and happiness, Pettigrew drew up short. He made a loud squeak as the unexpected cloaked figure appeared in front of him, blocking Peter's route from the village.
"Peter Pettigrew," the figure drawled out menacingly.
"Who are you? What do you want?" Peter mewed.
"You don't know your friends anymore, Peter? That always has been your flaw," the cloaked figure said in almost a whisper, as if the wind itself had brought the words to the small, shivering man.
"No!" Peter gasped, back pedalling from the cloaked figure. "You can't ..."
Dark strands shot from the tip of a wand Peter had not noticed before. They first bound his right wrist, circling his torso and left arm upwards in tight spirals. The cloaked figure knew not to allow the binds to come near the silver hand Peter's master had replaced for his reluctant servant's sacrifice in the graveyard of Little Hangleton. The hand was magical and could break the binding strands easily. New strands drew Peter's ankles together causing him to topple and roll as they wound up just over his knees. Peter tried to scream, but his voice would not work.
"Mobilicorpus," muttered the dark figure, levitating the squirming Peter Pettigrew for easier transport. The man walked towards the rear of the Potter house, the right corner of which had been destroyed inadvertently by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. His cruellest act to date had been perpetrated in the room that used to be there, the act that also meant his ultimate destruction. Arriving to the entrance of the cellar, the cloaked figure descended steep stairs, guiding Pettigrew into the depths of its blackness. The dark figure did not produce any light, much to Peter's annoyance, his terror feeding upon itself. Peter heard the man move forth into the darkness, not understanding the fateful intent of his abductor. Chains rattled in the blackened cellar. Peter felt a shackle secure itself to his right wrist. He tried to reach it with his fingers. He could break it with the magical strength of the silver hand.
"W-w-what are y-y-you d-d-d-doing?" stuttered the terrified Pettigrew.
There was no answer. Peter felt the man patting his robes, his wand was removed, he heard the brittle crack of it snapped in twain. Peter's mind reeled in horror. His mind trying to grasp what was happening. He needed only to secure the death register from the little church, the registry that listed the Peverels. There was no warning by the Dark Lord that he would be at risk. Peter knew the Dark Lord would not trust him to anything but the simplest of tasks. Who exactly was this man? Why was he being detained? What was he playing at? The nature of Peter's thoughts progressed morbidly. Still, the man did not speak. Another manacle fixed about his left wrist, then Peter felt the chains' slack go taught, he was secured, floating and unable to move or grasp the chain or bindings with his enchanted prosthesis.
"Why?" whined Peter, desperate now, babbling incoherently.
There was the sound of another chain being dragged towards him. The dark figure was standing at his head. Peter could feel his nearness. The dark figure removed his cloak hanging it on a nearby wall. He then fastened the chain about his own neck, not Peter's.
"What are you playing at?" Pettigrew begged of him.
The dark figure simply sat down, he calmed his breathing into a shallow, measured rhythm. Peter overtaxed his feeble intellect and passed out. He awoke in terror every few hours sputtering and squealing nonsense. The night passed slowly. Still, the dark figure sat quietly, as if in a trance. Two souls cut off from the world. The spells upon the Potter's house prevented any but wizards from seeing or hearing anything. The sun was rising, the open cellar door faced eastwards, long sanguine rays crept into the subterranean chamber. Peter awoke with a start as the light struck his eyes. He looked around wildly hoping for a means to escape. He tried to loosen his binds, but without success. Giving up all attempt for freeing himself, Peter tried craning his head to see who was holding him. Who could be torturing him so? Who would want to hurt him? Only one person came to his troubled mind, but he quickly dismissed the thought, he wouldn't have it in him to harm me like this. The man had positioned himself directly under, and far enough behind, to prevent Peter from glimpsing him.
"WHO ARE YOU?" Peter screamed. When he received no reply he began entreating his captor with, "Why?" over and over with no effect.
The cold had seeped deep into Peter's bones. He shivered uncontrollably all night. His captor had not moved or spoken since they had met upon the roadway. Hunger and thirst plagued Peter, but he was neither offered nor procured either. He had long ago evacuated his bladder, he could smell the stench mingled with his own fear. Peter begged, pleaded, threatened, and promised, using every possible means he could think of to cajol his captor to acknowledge his existence. The day waned slowly, drowning them with darkness once again. Peter cried most of the night. Still the man did not move or utter a sound. He had not eaten or drunk either. Peter watched the moon rise, brilliant, almost fully round. His panic once again claiming his consciousness. Through the night and following day Peter grovelled and begged, a pathetic figure, trussed, suspended a few feet from the floor, unable to move his limbs which cramped so badly he would cry out in pain frequently. With increasing despair, Peter watched the bright moon rise again, it was full and lit the cellar easily, penetrating the cold darkness.
It started in the pit of his stomach. He felt it twist in agonizing spasms. It was always began like this; then nerve endings stretch and burn furiously. He knew his mind would be the last to go. He thought about Peter Pettigrew and what his treachery had meant for James and Lily Potter, what that meant to their son, Harry. The image of James' flushed face, from the night of his return from his first date with Lily, the last human thought in his mind.
He arose with the morning sun. His ragged and worn body stiff. He saw the frozen blood covering himself and the cellar. Broken strands of his binding spell laying in torn pieces upon the floor mixed with pieces of shredded paper and the spine the church's registry. Bones, broken open and devoid of marrow littered the floor. A silver hand, still manacled, flexed open and closed mimicking convulsions. He arose, removed his wand from the travelling cloak hanging on the cellar wall, and removed the manacle from his chaffed and bleeding neck. He strode to a cupboard where he had placed spare clothing, his previous attire having been rendered useless.
His hunger having been sated, he drank from a tankard of water. He slowly exited the grizzly chamber, turned on the spot, and was gone.