Commission 2 - Truth or Scare

Things get a little crazy and debauched at the Gryff's Cup Final celebration party. Not that Harry is complaining about the outcome though..

Commission 2

Truth or Scare

Fandom: Harry Potter

Tags: Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, Non-Harry Cuckolding, Public Sex, Truth or Dare

Harry Potter stood in stunned disbelief, lips parted, the shocked silence of the room broken only by moans, grunts, and the rhythmic slap of flesh.

What had started as a pretty lowkey Gryffindor celebration in the back room of the Three Broomsticks had quickly spiraled into pure insanity. Gryffindor had just clinched the Quidditch Cup, and McGonagall—still high on victory and perhaps a nip of firewhisky—had graciously agreed to foot the bar tab.

That had been mistake number one.

Mistake number two? Letting word of the celebration slip to half the bloody castle. The room was packed now—tipsy to drunk twenty-somethings crammed into a magically expanded space, their inhibitions melting like butter on toast.

And then someone had pulled out the Weasleys’ Truth or Scare Party Pack. Apparently it was all the rage at these piss-ups—not that Harry would know, this wasn’t exactly his scene.

That had been mistake number three.

Well, that depends on who you asked, I guess…

Everyone had been roped in. Geased by the magic of the naughty party toy, literally. 

Refuse a dare, and you get hexed into next week. Lie during a ‘truth,’ and you'd be cursed with something itchy, embarrassing, or both before being flung out of the room on your arse.

Harry had tried to coast under the radar until Ron, already three drinks deep, jabbed a finger in his face and challenged him to confess his crush. Not wanting to suffer the same fate as his still furiously itching mate—his arse having yet to recover from the disgusting boils that had formed there at his earlier lie—Harry had mumbled Daphne Greengrass into his lap, and for the briefest of seconds, the room had fallen silent.

Even Daphne had looked startled—well, as startled as a Slytherin ice queen could manage.

To be honest, Harry was a little surprised by the lack of retribution himself. While most of the castle thought the Slytherin princess was gorgeous, he hadn’t really thought about such things ever since breaking up with Ginny. Daphne’s was the first name that came to mind when put on the spot as he was.

And who could blame him? The Slytherin, with her lustrous blonde hair styled into a thick French braid, took his breath away when he first laid eyes on her that evening, her outfit—though elegant and classy—still highlighted her beauty to perfection. She wore a fitted black ribbed turtleneck tucked into a high-waisted, knee-length tartan skirt in emerald green and silver. When he hadn’t been caught staring—her gorgeous ice-blue eyes somehow piercing into his soul—his cheeks had flushed in embarrassment and he turned his gaze downward, noting the black ankle boots and stockings that completed her stylish, sophisticated and sexy outfit.

He’d hoped that would be the end of it. But then Cormac bloody McLaggen had cranked up the chaos to eleven by daring Hermione to give Seamus a blowie. Up to that point, the most risque dare had been a cheeky snog here and there. A fight had almost broken out, Ron’s legendary temper quickly coming to the fore at McLaggen’s infuriating smirk.


To everyone’s surprise, she did it—likely still angry that Ron hadn’t honourably welched and taken his punishment when dared to snog Lavender, and no-doubt feeling extra courageous after imbibing her fair share of liquid courage—while Ron stood nearby sputtering like a broken kettle. Harry and everyone else watched on in shock as Hermione dropped to her knees in front of the stupefied Irishman, her face flushed a brilliant crimson as she tied her thick, wavy hair back into a ponytail.


She hesitated only a moment before leaning in, her lips parting around Seamus with a mixture of determination and embarrassed defiance. The room fell into stunned silence—punctuated only by Ron's strangled noise of disbelief—as Hermione began to bob her head with unexpected focus and an almost scientific rigour. Seamus, redder than a howler and gripping the edge of the couch like it was a life raft, could barely breathe.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t practiced. But the sheer outrageousness of it—the wet, muffled sounds, the flash of tongue, the look on Ron’s face—lit the room like a spark to dry tinder. Within a minute, Seamus let out a strangled groan and jerked in her mouth, hips twitching before slumping back with a dazed, satisfied look on his face while refusing to meet his mate’s furious glare.

Hermione pulled back slowly, cheeks flushed and eyes wide, swallowing quickly before standing and smoothing her skirt like she'd just recited a particularly tricky bit of Arithmancy. 

‘There,’ she said primly—absurdly—with a flick of her hair and a voice that trembled more from adrenaline than regret. ‘Satisfied?’

That had opened the floodgates.

Spicy dare followed spicy dare. Skirts lifted. Shirts vanished. Limbs tangled. The room transformed from party to bacchanal.

Harry had remained unscathed until McLaggen, clearly still bitter about being benched in sixth year, locked eyes with him and smirked. ‘Greengrass,’ he slurred, ‘I dare you to shag Corner.’

The crowd of inebriated revellers ooh’d as they had when Harry swiftly but narrowly dodged bludger after bludger in the Cup Final. 

Harry’s stomach dropped.

Corner—Ginny’s rebound. The bloke rumored to be hung like a centaur. A cheap shot if there ever was one.

Harry had half-expected Daphne to throw her drink in McLaggen’s face and storm out. Instead—maybe refusing to be shown up by her scholarly rival—she just rolled her eyes with theatrical boredom, hiked up her skirt, slid her stockings and knickers down her legs, and spun around to brace herself against a nearby table.

The room collectively leaned forward.

Her arse was revealed in one smooth motion—round, peachy, and devastatingly sculpted, the kind of behind honed through discipline and elegance. Not showy, but strong in all the right ways—a dancer’s balance of firmness and give, enough to grip and more than enough to drive men wild. The pale swell of her cheeks tensed slightly as she adjusted her stance, and for a moment, even the music seemed to fade under the weight of pure, stunned silence.

She looked back over her shoulder, arching a brow. ‘Well? Let’s get this over with.’

Her casual indifference, her sexy confidence, that arse. Harry nearly tore a hole in his trousers.

She’s perfect…

Corner, to his credit—or curse—rose to the challenge. Dropping trou, he revealed the rumors to be painfully true. Even Daphne’s practiced composure slipped, her eyes widening before she schooled herself once more.

Then came the thrusting. And the moaning. Harry’s mouth ran dry as he watched Corner’s oversized knob part Daphne’s delicate lips, heard her yip of surprise, then saw how the flesh of her arse seeped through her lover’s fingers as he gripped tight and starting shagging for all he was worth.


Each time Corner’s hips crashed against Daphne’s meaty behind, it rippled hypnotically, like someone had smacked a pudding—tight enough to take it with only a slight reddening of her pale skin, soft enough to wobble deliciously after.

Harry’s fists clenched at his sides. Jealousy clawed through him as he watched the girl he fancied get railed in front of the entire party. He didn’t know if he wanted to storm out or unzip and join the drunken degenerates cheering them on.

Thankfully, Corner didn’t last long. He finished with a shudder, groaning as he pulled out and spilled his seed all over that mouth-watering arse. Daphne gave him a look of profound disappointment and shoved him off, her expression one of mild disgust. Then, with a flick of her wrist, her wand was in hand and vanishing the sticky, viscous discharge, her features marred as her luscious lips curled into a sneer of disgust.

Harry caught a glimpse—just a glimpse—of her thoroughly used slit before she yanked her skirt back down. It still gaped, evidence of the oversized invader, but it was otherwise perfect. Soiled.

‘I need a drink,’ he muttered, striding away as the room exploded into hoots and applause.

He’d barely taken two sips of his firewhisky before someone tapped his shoulder. He turned, and choked on his drink.

‘Potter,’ said Daphne, looking a little dishevelled but otherwise once more immaculate and poised. She stood with her arms folded, brow pinched. ‘ I didn’t take you for a coward.’

‘I—what?’

‘You just stood there and let that oaf have his way with me?’ Her voice was even, but her eyes flashed. ‘I thought Gryffindors were meant to be brave. You confessed to fancying me—was that a lie?’

Her question felt like such a non-sequitur that it made Harry’s head spin.

Don’t fuck this up Potter!

‘I—no! I meant it!’

Her gaze was unreadable. ‘Then why didn’t you intervene?’

‘Because—’ he sputtered. ‘You agreed!’

‘I can still feel his Corner’s disgusting discharge on my back,’ she said flatly. ‘You’re lucky I don’t hex you.’

Harry swallowed. ‘You… wanted me to stop it?’

‘I expected you to try.’

There was a long pause as he gathered what remained of his courage, then met her gaze. ‘I was serious, you know. About fancying you. You’re,’ he licked his suddenly dry lips and channelled a bit of his lothario of a godfather’s swagger, ‘you’re so beautiful it’s a little intimidating. It feels like you’ll bite my head off for even talking to you… but I still can’t help but want to try.’

For the first time, her lips twitched. A hint of a smirk. Harry nearly cheered, she seemed pleased, her ego sufficiently placated.

‘Good. Then let’s go upstairs. You can tell me in detail how much you fancy me.’

She grimaced mid-sentence and shivered in disgust. ‘Though first… I think I’ll need a bath. A vanishing spell just doesn’t quite cut it.’

Harry pulled on that well of courage Daphne had suggested was lacking and smirked. ‘Need a hand?’

Instead of responding, Daphne eyed him up and down hungrily—her bottom lip caught sexily between her teeth—before she seized his hand and pulled him through the crowd. 

No one even noticed them leave—everyone too busy watching McLaggen triumphantly plow a half-naked, furiously moaning Hermione—no way the studious bookworm could allow herself to be one-upped by her rival—her luscious breasts bouncing and jiggling with each thrusts and the crowd cheering them on while Ron turned steadily scarlet and trembled with rage in the corner.