Shrieking Shack

@kim yukwon Harsh weather conditions suit him, a body that's been tested and has overcome the vicious trials of adventure and Quidditch playing, from flying in the midst of storms that forced him to push himself further than he's ever gone, to runs and -kicking work outs in violent downpours that carved him into what he was now. Toughened and resilient. But, an overly confident nature could not fight snow, dense and incessantly falling, the cold bleeding through his jacket, denim, boots, everything. It crawls and it whips against his rugged skin, whistles and screams, weather that has suddenly formed a life of its own, alive and hungry for bodies. There's too much white and not enough Earth to comfort him, remind him that he's not alone, however, randomly stumbling feet suggest he is lost, stuck. Although, unafraid, chuckling deeply to himself, realizing he's made possibly the worst mistake deciding to linger in Hogsmeade an hour after his friends departed due to weather forecasts, predictions of a nasty blizzard unleashing Hell before Zac realized the severity of it. The Shack is not a haven, it's a broken down hut full of haunting essences, a speck of brown through snowy terrain and Zac knows he's desperate enough to give the creepy destination a chance. Feet dragging in snow that's coming to be knee-deep, gloved hands shoving against a poorly sealed off door, that eventually gives way beneath his strength and the powerful gusts and causes a sinewy frame to collapse forward.

He hits the deck unceremoniously, palms flying out, barely catching his fall, a chiseled face dusted in ivory flakes and painfully flushed red greeting an ancient, dirtied welcoming rug. Grunts crawl up from the base of his throat, this large bear of a man, rolling helplessly onto his back, flinging a leg out in attempt to shut the door on his own. He's unsteady, deeply confused, and so so soooo ing cold, an unwavering amount of shivers claiming the muscles of his body that's almost too numb to even feel at this point, and he just might be lucky enough to take shelter here, if he can find his wand in time to start a fire. Once he's on his feet, the first thing that has to go are his gloves that were already damp and useless, followed by his beanie, and when he's in the midst of removing a jacket to reveal the dark blue plaid top underneath, he pauses at the creaking of footsteps sounding from upstairs. Ghosts? Already? Ash blond eyebrows risen up to his forehead out of intrigue, and slight bewilderment, the fabric of his plaid top wrinkled across broad shoulders and an impressive torso as his masculine fingers discover the wand tucked under his leather belt at last, retrieving his wand upon the instinct of hearing curious noises. A Gryffindor's edge for exploring caused his own pair of feet to carry up the old stairwell, seeking out what could be friend or foe.

"Hello ...? Anyone in here?"