Harry knows others arguably had it worse than he did.
His story isn't all that unique. There are more war orphans than the aging wizarding system knows what to do with. Abuse isn't limited to scarred children with immortal enemies, and neither is a lack of individualized attention at boarding school.
Hermione, still forming her understanding of herself and the world around her, was thrown into a racist new world as a third class citizen. Trying to exercise some small amount of control, she attempted to liberate a group of people even more oppressed than she was, but only earned the mockery of her peers. She gave up her parents during that horrible, final year, not knowing whether she would ever see them again. She, Harry thinks, is always a strong contender. Still, she did get her parents back plus she has a pretty good job at the Ministry, so maybe he can use that to his advantage.
Ron's case is a bit weaker. Yeah, he's the sixth son of a large, poor family. He lost one of his brothers tragically, and two others have magical disfigurements. But, Harry reckons, that last part didn't happen to him so it doesn't really count. What else? Ah, he does have scars from the brains in the ministry during their fifth year. He does tend to harp on that, and would probably bring it up. But Harry has a ready-made reply and can probably get around that.
Tonight, Harry plans to win.
….
Harry, Ron and Hermione sit at a booth in the corner of the bar. They've only been here a couple of times, but it's quickly become a favorite. Drinks are a bit more expensive than at the Leaky, but it has the added advantage of not having every person who ever read a newspaper staring at them. They'll take it. Besides, the game is beginning and soon they won't notice anyone else.
"Filch thought I petrified his cat and had it out for me ever since."
"That's barely anything, Harry. I had to eat slugs in second year," Ron boasts.
"To be fair, Ron, you did that to yourself."
"In Hermione's defense! I was a hero!"
"Well in that case, that was the first time I was called a Mudblood. Think I win this round." Harry concedes with grace, but Ron, disgruntled, starts the next round harder.
"I have scars all up my arms from the brains in the ministry. The healer at Mungo says she doesn't think they'll ever fade." And there it is, Harry thinks. Knew it.
"Scars?" Hermione remarks casually, but Harry knows she's going in for the kill, "would you like to see what Bellatrix decided to carve into me?"
He winces, but that's how the game is played and it's his turn to counter. "If we're going with the scar theme, mine connected me directly to Voldemort and let me feel his emotions and watch really horrible things."
Hermione raises an eyebrow. "That's quite a lot to put into one bid, Harry. You sure you want to use three traumatic cards on this?"
Before he can answer, a nasally voice butts in from behind. "What in the world are you talking about?"
They turn, blinking in bewilderment that anyone would bother them here, now, when they're clearly in the zone. Harry is no longer surprised though when he sees Pansy Parkinson, Draco Malfoy, and Blaise Zabini in the next booth over. They aren't friendly, exactly, but Harry admits to having the odd conversation with them over the last couple years and supposes they probably aren't the enemy anymore. Though apparently their pure-blood upbringing didn't teach them not to eavesdrop.
Zabini pops his chin over Parkinson's shoulder, giving them all an approving look. "It sounds like they're having a contest of whose trauma was worst during school, Pans. We should try it."
Hermione looks embarrassed. "Er, technically, it's whoever had the most trauma altogether, but you can understand why we mostly talk about school stories."
Malfoy seems quite interested. "Is there a point system? Some kind of ranking?"
"More general sentiment, really," Harry responds. "Otherwise we'd run into people claiming that we can't truly calculate how someone else responds to trauma." He side-eyes Hermione but doesn't comment further. He remembers the lecture and can't bear to hear it again, especially in front of witnesses.
Parkinson pitches in again. "And . . . what's the point, exactly?"
"Whoever wins doesn't pay for drinks tonight," Ron responds easily.
"That's messed up." Her voice turns admiring and Ron invites them to join. Harry is miffed for a moment, but really, what could three pampered Slytherins have to complain about?
"Ground rules," Hermione says when everyone has pushed into the booth, "are pretty standard. You can only say true things and of course everything said at this table, stays at this table."
"What if someone accidentally lets something slip?" Zabini actually bats his eyes at her. Harry grins inwardly.
Hermione smiles sweetly back. "Then my wand will accidentally slip as well."
The Slytherins just smirk, until Ron mentions conversationally, "you know, they still haven't figured out how to remove the acne scars on Marietta Edgecombe's face." Their smirks fade inversely to Hermione's growing one.
"Everyone ready? Draco, why don't you start?" Harry knows that Hermione is trying to let them set the pace which would be kind in any other circumstance, but it's been a shitty week and he would rather win than be kind tonight.
Malfoy begins, "my father was angry I wasn't top student at Hogwarts." Harry makes a face as he realizes he'll need to find something only slightly traumatic to match.
"A dragon tried to kill us at Gringotts." Aaaaaand we're back! Harry cheers.
"You think that's bad, Weasley? My parents expected me to marry Draco. Draco!" Parkinson emphasizes, eyes wide for effect.
"Ugh, I know what you mean. I had to live in a tent with these two for months." Hermione shares a commiserating glance with Parkinson, and Harry thinks they're having rather too much bonding for this competition.
"Well my mother paraded her husbands around in front of me before allegedly killing them," Zabini drops with a straight face.
"Allegedly?" Ron asks, interested.
"I really couldn't say," Zabini responds.
Trying to play off the general idea of people/dragons not liking someone, Harry contributes, "my aunt and uncle locked me in a cupboard under the stairs until I was almost eleven."
He's met with blank stares and a couple of open mouths. Shit. He'd got it wrong again. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Hermione put her finger to her lips as if shushing everyone else at the table. He pretends not to notice.
"I suppose you win this round, Potter." Malfoy's drawl is less offensive when he says Harry is winning, so it was possibly worth unloading more trauma than is generally acceptable to near-acquaintances. "Now for this next round . . ."
One by one they start dropping out. Zabini, who can only think of a couple things to say, is the first to fold. Parkinson is quick to follow, much more interested in watching it all unfold than she is her own performance. Hermione and Ron try their best, but Harry thinks that they should know better. If Malfoy is in the room, he's not going to hold back.
Fairly soon, it's down to Harry and Malfoy. They sit across from each other, sustaining eye contact in a way that's only comfortable for lovers or competitors. It's a fine line, Harry supposes.
"I'm an orphan."
"So am I."
"I never knew my parents."
"I knew mine."
"Nagini bit me and I nearly died."
"I watched Nagini eat the Muggle Studies professor. Right in front of me, Potter."
"Stop responding to my trauma and come up with some of your own, Malfoy."
"But you make it so easy. You'd think we were the same person."
Harry's done playing and pulls out his trump card. He doesn't use it often (it seems unfair), but desperate times and all that. "I died during the war."
Malfoy doesn't even blink. "Literally or metaphorically?"
"Um, literally." Harry wonders if he should regret this disclosure.
"Ah. Well as it happens, Potter, I did as well."
Harry's world implodes. Not entirely, but he's pretty sure no one else exists but Malfoy and his admission. "What." That doesn't seem strong enough. "What the absolute fuck do you mean?"
Malfoy, strangely, looks smug. "You didn't think the Dark Lord lived in my house for kicks and giggles, did you? No, he used us as subjects for his . . . experiments. Some of them were quite kinky, to be honest. Death was actually pretty tame."
The table has gone entirely silent. Parkinson and Zabini look at Malfoy as if they've never seen him before. Hermione's face is white, and Ron is holding her hand so hard Harry abstractly wonders if they'll ever be able to separate. Not that it really matters, because Malfoy was killed and somehow brought back to life and Harry's fairly certain he's going to be sick except the world has ended so he can't sick up into nothing and –
Malfoy bursts into laughter. "Oh, you should see your faces. Merlin, you're a gullible lot."
The silence smashes as they blow a collective outward breath, then start pelting Malfoy with peanuts and straw wrappers.
"I can't believe you sold that!" Parkinson shrieks. "I was terrified!"
"Come off it, Pans. You're my best friend, of course you'd know if I fucking died. Besides, do you think he would've been so obsessed with a child if he had the means to resurrect?"
"You'd be surprised," Harry mutters, still regaining his equilibrium. He also notices Malfoy's eyes won't quite meet anyone else's, and wonders whether the experimentation at Malfoy Manor has some truth after all.
"Ok," Zabini takes over, businesslike. "Malfoy, do you fold?"
"For today." Malfoy's smug smile is back. "I'll dwell upon my life story and come better prepared for the next one."
"The next one?" Harry is shocked.
"Well, yes, you can't expect me to not join this delightful game. I have so many stories to tell and, quite frankly," he leans in, and they can't help but respond by leaning right back, "carrying around all my galleons has really done a number on my back."
He's met with a collective groan, and Harry pretends not to hear Parkinson mutter to Zabini, "he's going to use that to start next time, mark my words."
Zabini mutters back, "interesting conversation though, considering he still won't tell us exactly what happened to him in the Manor. Why would he start here, with them?"
Parkinson's gaze turns to Harry, and he makes sure his eyes stay fixed on Ron half-heartedly blocking Hermione from strangling Malfoy. "You know how much he likes competing with Potter. Maybe he needed the . . . motivation."
"So hearing about the worst of Potter's life made him feel like he could share his?"
Their conversation gets too low to hear and Harry tunes back in to the other three, where Ron is arguing that Malfoy should pay for everyone since his overabundance is clearly causing him stress.
And that night, walking home warm and a slight bit tipsy, Harry starts cataloguing the most traumatic experiences he can think of. Just in case.