Frederick Matthias Thompson, Jr.

[freddiethompson]

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{ A B O U T . Y O U }

Name: kiara
Gender: a little touch of everything.
Age: old enough.
E-mail: already within your possession.
Twitter: far too mainstream for my hipster tastes.
Years of RPG Experience: nearly seven. though this number changes with every application.
Other: teddy.

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{ Q U I C K . Q U I Z }

How did you find us? you found me.
What about ISS inspired you to join? a little touch of everything.
Do you have any suggestions for us? absolutely nothing.

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{ A B O U T . T H E . C H A R A C T E R }

Name: Frederick Matthias Thompson, Jr.

The thing about Freddie’s name is that he isn’t actually a real junior because Thompson is his mother’s name. He never knew his father as anything other than his father, and his mother had always called him Mister Frederick on the phone when she thought Freddie wasn’t listening. He doesn’t know what his last name should be, it is all a part of the secret that he had been told to keep when he was three.

The other thing about Freddie’s name is that if he completely spells it out, there is an odd number of letters in his name. No matter which way Freddie goes about spelling his name in any configuration, there is always an odd number of letters. The only reason he goes by Freddie Matthias is because it has fifteen letters and fifteen is a multiple of five, and multiple of fives are even half of the time and odd half of the time, and fifty is an even number, and also a multiple of five. It still makes him anxious, so he really doesn’t like to talk about his name at all. Freddie sucks, too, because that was how his father had spelt it on all of his birthday cards, so he feels obligated to use that as his nickname, despite the fact that it has seven letters and seven is a prime number. Still, the anxiety over the odd number to his name is pale in comparison to the anxiety he would suffer if he were to change his name to Freddy.
Age: Fifteen
Gender: Male
Year: Fifth
Face Claim: Groffers. Okay, so that’s not his actual name. Jonathon Groff. Groffers, tho.

Canon or Original? Original

Facial Properties:
He has exactly seventy-four freckles that lightly dust over the skin of his face. His eyes are a blue-green sort of mix of a color, with flecks of gold around the edges. They are surrounded by exactly 142 eyelashes on his right eye, and 137 on his left eye. His hair is quite long and curly because he is too lazy to cut it. His nose is sharp, his lips are thin. He counted thirty-two facial hairs the last time he shaved. He has a sharp jaw that leads to a long neck that has only twelve freckles. His ears are a little larger than normal, but not so large that he’s terribly self-conscious about them. All in all he’d say he has a generally average looking face. Nothing too remarkable. He likes to believe he looks like his father, or, well, he used to.
Physique:
He is exactly 70 inches tall. This is roughly 178 centimeters. He has no other particularly distinguishing traits about his body. He is under the impression that he is quite average in every aspect of his life, and this is mostly because his mother has put him under this impression and his father is not around to tell him otherwise. If there were to be a notable fact about his body is that it is that he has broken several bones, and some have been broken several times. Well, he hasn’t broken them. They have been broken.

Freddie is well aware of the semantics.

Wand Type: 16”, Rosewood, Dragon Heartstring Core
Wand Expertise: Transfiguration
Patronus: The Loggerhead Sea Turtle
Boggart: Chaos. It is hard to describe Freddie’s deepest fear, so if faced with a boggart, he is under the impression that it would just become chaos. Perhaps a tornado, perhaps some other kind of destructive chaos, but it would not be something tangible, something he could hold, something he could point at and scream.

Personality:
To call him a perfectionist would be a terribly gross understatement of a condition that Freddie has suffered from since he was five. Coupled with a crippling anxiety disorder, Freddie suffers from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, leaving him with certain tics and rituals that he must complete in order for him to function properly at any given time. To be the most specific, Freddie counts. He counts every step he takes from one spot to the next, jotting it down in a little notebook. If the second time he makes that journey has less or more steps than that initial time, he must turn around and go back, repeating the process until his steps are perfect. He counts every time he chews, chewing exactly thirty times before he swallows each bite. He takes sips of water or whatever other beverage he is drinking for exactly three seconds. Beyond his counting tic, Freddie is just compulsively neat. There is always a specific order to everything, even if it is not necessarily known to everyone else.

His strive for perfection often leaves him sorely disappointed by his own performance, which means that he often deems it necessary to punish himself in often terrible and uncalled for ways. Sometimes it is simple and somewhat benign in retaliation to his more violent and self-hating of punishments: he’ll lock himself in his room and refuse to come out. He won’t allow himself to go to Hogsmeade and enjoy the time there. He’ll forbid himself from talking to anyone. Sometimes, he leans more toward the self-harm end of the spectrum. He wears a rubber band around his wrist that he will snap when untoward thoughts are caused. He has been known to cut his thighs, small cuts that heal quickly and are otherwise indistinguishable on his skin. He doesn’t like the kind of punishment that would be noticed, that could be pointed out, and that could be used against him in his quest for perfection.

It is because of these things that makes Freddie seem anti-social, but he is not completely socially inept. He can carry on a conversation as long as it interests him and he doesn’t find the person boring. He’s judgmental. If he feels as if a person is not useful to him or could not be useful to him, he does not allow himself to have a conversation with them. He finds himself focusing intently on the types of people his father would want him to socialize with, and those are the people he tries to surround himself with. He’s particular and shallow. He’s brutally honest and impatient. He is dismissive if unimpressed and overtly cavalier when he is impressed. He exudes a confidence he does not have because it is one of the sharpest memories he has growing up as a child.

His relationship with his mother has made Freddie somewhat handicapped when it comes to relationships with women in general, in particular romantic relationships. He does not understand what it means to love or to be loved; therefore, he is sort of emotionally stunted on that side of things. Despite being a teenage boy, he does not have any real, pertinent desire to even have sex with women. It isn’t that he’s gay or anything along those lines; it would just sort of be like being romantically or sexually interested in his mother, who had been the only woman in his life for so long. It makes him awkward and uncomfortable when left alone with girls, and he often resorts to ridiculous measures to get away.

All in all, he’s a quiet type of person who mostly keeps to himself unless there is an obvious gain to speaking or interacting with others.



Likes:
+ Counting
+ Even numbers
+ Order
+ Perfection
+ Philosophy
+ Literature
+ Music
+ Art
+ Cooking
+ Silence
Dislikes:
– Red
– Violence
– Confrontation
– Boredom
– Noise
– Odd Numbers
– Chaos
– Messes
– Vapidity
– Stupidity

History:
His mother was sixteen when she met his father. His father was thirty. Their combined age was forty-six. His mother had been born in nineteen-forty-six. His father had been born in nineteen-thirty-two. His mother had become pregnant when his father was thirty-two. His father already had one wife, which meant that he couldn't have two. Which meant that his mother could never be married, which meant that he was a bastard. All of this boiled down to his father having two families, while he and his mother only had one, and they were the family that no one wanted.

When Freddie was three, his father had been thirty-six (which was three twelve times, and twelve is three four times), and he had asked Freddie if he could keep a secret. Freddie had only been three and had not known what secrets were, but his father had told him three secrets that day, one for each year that Freddie had been on the planet. The first was that his father had loved Freddie very much, but Freddie was three and he didn't understand why this needed to be kept a secret. The second was that his father could not marry his mother, and Freddie was three and didn't understand why that needed to be kept a secret if his father kept telling his mother that every Sunday when he would come for supper. The third was that Freddie was not an only child, but his brothers and sisters needed to be kept a secret from him, and Freddie was three and didn't understand why his four siblings did not want to meet him as badly as Freddie wanted to meet him.

When Freddie was five he wondered if it was because five was an odd number and things were nice and orderly when kept in even numbers. Maybe that was the reason his father's other family didn't want to meet him, because then it would be an odd number and they would never be able to divide cookies easily. Freddie was smart for five, and he knew how to share things equally. His mother taught him that when she taught him how to count. She taught him how to count when she taught him how to bake. If Freddie could have counted that high, his five year old self would have made a list of all the different things his mother had taught him.

There were seven days in the week, and Freddie's father only came to visit him on Sundays, which was the first day of the week. Every Sunday he would bring Freddie exactly three presents. The first was always some kind of a sweet; usually his father brought him exactly seventeen jelly-beans in various colors, but mostly blue. Freddie's father knew his favorite color was blue so he would always pick the blue jelly-beans out of the bags of Bertie Botts that he would buy for Freddie. The second was always some kind of a book with words and numbered pages. The page numbers would grow each week, sometimes by tens, sometimes by hundreds. Sometimes, Freddie wondered if his father thought he was some sort of genius; the books he was given were far too hard for him to read, but he didn't want to be a disappointment. It was the first time Freddie was aware of the kind of pressure his father put him under, and he was only five.

Freddie was four the first time he wondered if his father didn't love him, if that's why he was supposed to be kept a secret, but he likes to tell things in sequential order. He won't continue on this thought because four does not come after five, it comes before and he forgot. So, he'll just have to start over.

He was three when his father first told him to keep a secret; he was four when he first started to wonder what it was about him that his father didn't love enough to stay; he was five when his mother started to teach him how to count things.

He was six when his father stopped coming for Sunday dinners. He was six and his mother was twenty-six (which was six four times with two left over, and two times two times two is six), and his mother was inconsolable for a while. He never knew why, though. His mother just told him that his father had finally decided that he was worthless and wasn't worth being with anymore. His mother had hit him in the face and told him to stop crying, because this was his fault. She only hit him once that day. She had five fingers on her hand, and there were five finger-like bruises on his cheek. He was six.

He was seven when he started counting everything. There were twenty-six steps between his bed and the bathroom. There were thirteen steps from the upstairs to the downstairs. He could chew his food thirty times before he swallowed, and he would never choke. Drinking sips that lasted no longer than three seconds was polite and refreshing. His father would have been thirty-nine, which was seven five times with four left over. Four like the number of times his mother had called him worthless on his birthday. There hadn't been a cake with seven candles, but he had had a grilled cheese sandwich that had been orange like fire. He blew on it to cool it down and pretended to make a wish.

He was seven and he wished his parents loved him. He wished his father loved him enough to come back to Sunday dinners -- and bring him seventeen blue jellybeans. He wished his mother loved him enough to stop smacking him whenever he did something she didn't like (the last time she hit him four times on the bottom because he had accidentally scared her when he quietly asked her if he could go play outside).

He was eight when he stopped coming when his mother called his name late at night. Eight like the number of glasses of wine she would drink.

He was nine when he started to care for himself, feeding himself, bathing himself, getting himself up and to school on time. There were three hundred and forty-four steps between his house and his school. There were one thousand two hundred and seventy-three steps between his school and the park. There were one thousand six-hundred and nineteen steps between the park and home. It was usually half-past eleven when he got home, and his mother was sleeping on the couch. It took him twenty steps from the front door to the couch. He could carry three bottles of wine in his hands. It took him twelve steps to the garbage can.

He was ten when he realized that if he was perfect, his father would come back. He was ten when he realized that when his father came back, his mother would stop drinking. He was ten when he realized that when his mother stopped drinking, she would stop hitting him. He was ten when he realized that if he was perfect, his mother would stop hitting him.

He was eleven when he found out he was a wizard. His mother was twenty-eight, and she was a witch. She just never told him because it was another secret he was supposed to keep. He was eleven, he was a wizard, and his mother had forgotten it was his birthday entirely. She hadn't made him supper and had screamed at him when she found him cooking for himself. She had smacked him thirteen times before he started to cry. She only smacked him seven times after that. Freddie liked round numbers.

He was thirteen when he found out his mother had died. Alcohol poisoning was what the doctor had said, but Freddie had been too busy counting the lines on his mother's face. She was thirty years old, but he could count lines on her like she was fifty. A social worker had pulled him away, and he had screamed. Not because he didn't want to leave his mother's side -- he was terribly happy to be rid of her, if he was honest -- but because he hadn't finished counting. She had also grabbed onto his arms which were blue and purple and green and gross. Her name was Lola. She was thirty-six. She was not going to be his new mother.

He was twelve when his mother started smoking something that smelt funny and crackled like fire, but he had already said that he was thirteen and he can't go back without starting over.

He was three when his father first told him to keep a secret; he was four when he first started to wonder what it was about him that his father didn't love enough to stay; he was five when his mother started to teach him how to count things; he was six when his father stopped coming to Sunday dinners; he was six when his mother started hating him and hitting him; he was seven when he started counting things; he was eight when he learned to avoid her at night after she had started drinking; he was nine when he started to take care of himself; he was ten when he realized he just needed to be perfect; he was eleven when he found out that he was a wizard and his mother was a witch; he was twelve when his mother started smoking something that smelt funny and crackled like fire; he was thirteen when his mother died and he met Lola.

He was fourteen when he was placed in a foster home of a well to-do Pureblood family. He was fourteen and their combined ages made them one hundred and twenty-nine, which was sixty-three and sixty-six. They left him alone to his room. He could walk around the perimeter of his room in seventy-seven steps.

He is currently fifteen years old, but he will turn sixteen in one-hundred and two days. His birthday is on the third month on the eleventh day. He will be sixteen then. He is in his fifth year at Hogwarts, which means he has two more to go. He is still trying to be perfect for his father, who would be forty-eight when he is sixteen, which is in one hundred and two days. He still hopes that his father will come back to him, will find him in this weird pureblood home with people far too old to relate to him (one hundred and twenty-nine).

There are one thousand eight-hundred and thirty-two words in this history.

(In case you wanted to know.)

(1839.)
Sample Post: {four or more paragraphs}

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{ C O N T R A C T }

I solemnly swear that I, kiara, have read the rules, understand clearly what my responsibilities are now that I am joining ISS, and will abide by these standards set by the staff.

[Professor Albus Dumbledore]

accepted !

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