Atticus is a young white male of average height and weight with dark brown eyes and hair, and a pale complexion. His eyes, although seemingly a plain and muddy brown, upon closer inspection in the light appear to have striking flecks of honey gold within the iris. He has a long but rounded nose, which compliments his somewhat sharp cheekbones and chin, all of which are covered with a generous dusting of freckles and sunburn. This boyish combination continues onto his shoulders and collarbone from the unending amount of time he spent outside (and un-hatted) working on his family's farm with his father. His short chestnut brown hair is somewhat unkempt and imprecisely cut, and is constantly falling into his face. He wears mostly hand-me-down clothes that are relatively loose-fitting and that hide his frame, but he often pushes long sleeves up and out of the way.



Despite being raised in a two-parent household, Atticus has always felt somewhat distanced from his family, which in turn became a feeling of distance from his peers and friends. Nevertheless, he has always prided himself on being a place of laughter and comfort to those who need it and is always ready to reach out and offer a helping hand. However, on the rare occasion that he is left alone, he retreats into himself and selfishly indulges in his own creative hobbies like reading, writing, and analysis of the arts. If one is ever to find Atticus in a seemingly trance-like state while pouring over old classic literature or poetry, it's likely that he is in another world completely his own, immersed in the story unfolding on the page. This escapism pours into his boundless imagination, which he uses to spin his own stories; tales of princes and princesses, slain dragons, elemental magic, and much more, but all with climactic and happy endings.



Even before receiving his letter of admission to Hogwarts, Atticus had always known that there was something strange about him, something that made him stand apart from the rest of his peers. Although he wasn't an outcast, he still felt like he sat on the outskirts of every conversation. He blamed this partially on his upbringing; he was home-schooled and had been raised on a farm, miles away from the main part of town. His parents, both muggles, always made a big fuss about the first Sunday of every month, and after a while, it became a family tradition that no one was exempt from attending. Atticus and his family; his father, stepmother, younger sister, and younger brother, would all dress up in their Sunday best and head into town for the day. First, they would attend church, always arriving just in time for the earliest sermon at nine AM sharp. Frequently Atticus and his siblings would fall asleep in their chairs listening to the dull dronings of the pastor. Then, at the end of the sermon, all the children would go outside to play while the adults mingled inside, making their idle and boring small talk. Once their parents came to fetch them all of the children would leave one by one, piling into cars and heading home. Except Atticus and his family never went home after church. They always went into town for a big Sunday breakfast at the local diner. One of the few things Atticus always looked forward to was Sunday breakfasts at the Golden Pigeon, because it was the only time he got to see his father, an often stern and cold man, with a smile on his face from the wafting aromas and bold, greasy flavors of a homestyle breakfast. After that, they would head into town and trade eggs and milk for firewood, fresh beef and chicken for building supplies, and pure raw honey for home goods and fruits and vegetables that they couldn't grow in this local climate. The honey was always his favorite, though he'd never admit to sneaking tastes, as it was procured by his stepmother. Although she was strict and sometimes unkind to the children, she was always gentle when keeping her bees. She would often fret about the health and happiness of her colony, all the while a small smile would threaten to tear the delicately crafted facade off of her angular face any time she was discussing it. When she needed to be alone, as everyone does, she would slip off her house shoes, sneak out the back porch door barefooted and go to her bees, and they would always strangely convene on her shoulders and chest while she picked and ate fruit from the trees and trimmed away the weeds in the herb garden.



And this was his routine. Wake up before the sun alongside his father, wash up, and scarf down a quick and quiet breakfast, just the two of them in the dark kitchen. Atticus would tend to the chickens and the goats alone, filling feed and collecting eggs and milk while his father surveyed the land and decided what needed to be done that day. Then, he would help his father get started on the care of the rolling fields of crops and together they would check on any machinery his father needed for the day and bring it out to the field. Once the sun was higher in the sky he was called back inside to wash up and complete his household chores alongside his stepmother and his siblings. After all of that, it was time for lunch and the beginning of Atticus's school day. He was homeschooled by his stepmother in the fundamentals of reading, writing, and arithmetic, but that's about as far as his studies would take him.



When Atticus was only nine years old, an accident occurred on the farm. It had been a particularly hot Saturday morning, and so while the sun was high and the heat was intense, he and his father decided to stay in the shade of the garage and fix up the tractor. The timing belt inside the nearly ancient machine had been squealing particularly loudly the last few days, so his father decided to lift it up and climb under to see what the issue was. He propped it up on two large lifts and had Atticus hold a torch while he shimmied under the machine. After about twenty minutes of tinkering, the old rusty lifts began to creak and buckle under the weight of the machinery. Suddenly, before Atticus or his father could act, the lifts snapped and shot metal out toward the opposing wall, and all 7 tons of the tractor landed on top of his father. Atticus's whole world went silent. No singing birds or rustling forest creatures could be heard, the chickens stopped warbling and the goats stopped braying. The machine creaked as it landed, the front leftmost wheel landing seemingly squarely on his father's chest. He bolted to his feet, unsure of what to do. And just as suddenly as it had come down, the tractor rose with him. He stepped to run for his stepmother, but the tractor moved with him again, with his father underneath, unharmed. His eyes were wide as he stared upwards at the underside of the giant machine, and then he lifted his head to stare at Atticus.

"How on earth are you doin' that, son?"