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The Tale of Stimulating Stream, The Feisty Flower, and the Keen Kafir

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Prompt: Hermione went through her parents things and finds a magical genie lamp that transports her to save Jafar
Fandoms: Aladdin, Harry Potter
Pairing(s): Jafar/Hermione, Jafar/Jasmine
Kinks: Jafar lives, au, time travel, fluff, romance
Squicks: death, gore
Additional Info: Lust, at first sight, AU, Used all of the above, Sister Wives, Hero Jafar. No Aladdin, Abu, Carpet or Genie. OC’s and An Arabian tale ending. A HUGE THANK YOU to the Prompter for inspiring me out of my comfort zone and an even BETTER Thank You to H for beta-ing this for me and researching terminology correct for the place and time. Words like Kafir. She alone did the mammoth task to correct grammer, spelling and told me to make sure to keep several peoples POV's clear as I am an omniscient POV writer. I do try hard to keep scenes separated but not the odd sentence that might creep in. So, give her a huge hand clap.
Title: The Tale of The Stimulating Stream, The Feisty Flower and The Keen Kafir
Word Count: 14,748


Ah, it is you! I’ve met you before somewhere? No? Well, the famous dead sea Tupperware is still good. Listen, phthppput, I sell for you half-price, huh? Good, listen, old but not break. Ah look, combination Hookah unbreak it will unbreak… it broke… again!

Then what can I sell such a worthy companion? A story? Here is something unique, only one in the world – what do you mean it’s old and dented. Do not go, please, I have story. I have good story for a worthy connoisseur such as yourself. Want to hear the tale, then come into my tent and I tell story! Now we comfortable, yes? Good, this story is called Flying Through Flowing Streams – want to know more? I can see you’re interested!

This lamp is more than what it seems – this lamp grants spectacular wishes. This story begins in a time we know not of for we have yet to reach it. It involves an ordinary young woman, in an ordinary house, but the girl was not what she appeared, and neither was the wishing lamp found by her father.

It begins with a young woman sorting through her father’s things in the attic of her childhood home…


The Tale of The Stimulating Stream, The Feisty Flower and The Keen Kafir

Dust motes were almost suspended in animation as the young woman was in her parent’s attic sifting through their accumulated assets. Papers were hidden in old chests; necklaces she remembered her mother being given as presents (and loathed therefore hidden) in old silver-plated jewellery boxes anchored to their places by spiderwebs. Normal arachnids held no fear for her, even though she knew in the magical community there were giant flesh eating spiders that could crush her to death. Then again, she reasoned, so could a muggle bus but that does not mean she has a fear of public transportation. Although, after hearing the story, she could not blame Ronald’s abject horror of spiders and she had rightfully disgraced the twins who actually apologised to their little brother for their torment of him.

Now she was rummaging through an ottoman filled to the gills with nothing but old sheets, extremely faded old photographs with indistinct faces and torn corners. She’d no desire to find out who they were, so she did not blink, as she chucked them into the fifth rubbish bag; along with tattered ‘drawings’, little sculptures she’d made with papier-maiché. Rolling her eyes, she remembered her parents declaring how talented she was. The lies adults tell children, she mused. Sighing, she put them in a box labelled: To-Think-About. The ottoman might come in useful, she thought; she could enchant some shelves into it and use it as a travelling alchemists kit. Her life as Hermione Granger was flashing before her eyes.

She’d ripped another bag from the roll when her mother walked up with a cup of tea.

“Thank you for helping us do this. You know it’s been difficult since…”

Hermione nodded. Within six months of the end of the war, Hermione had found her parents by using Lucius Malfoy’s knack of getting information and knowing the right people. She’d struck a deal with the arrogant wizard that she would rescue him from Azkaban if he found her parents for her. They came back to England three months after – but, tragically, her father suffered a stroke within weeks and died within days. Strangely enough, Lucius offered his help and now her mother was dating a divorced Lucius. Her head had barely wrapped around this concept when the man had offered his new girlfriend a home, along with her charming daughter. There was something niggling the back of Hermione’s brain. The two had moved on rather quickly, which if she delved deeper into the situation she’d surely find herself opening a large can of worms that did not need to be revealed. Therefore, she had decided to accept the relationship development with as much aplomb as she could. This was why she was clearing things out in the attic in her childhood home.

“Well, someone has to go through all this junk.”

“Your father did buy a lot of charity shop rejects – his love of auctions was almost a disease.”

“Yeah,” Hermione chuckled. “I mean look at this,” she brandished something that looked so bashed and beaten up that no one would even consider selling it. “Dad even had a piece of paper stuck to it,” with this she smirked as she took out the folded A4 sheet. Coughing to clear her throat she read in her father’s voice:

“Dear Helen and Hermione; this was found in a field and I took it around various establishments to see if they knew anything about it. No one could say anything except the bleeding obvious: an old oil lamp that was most probably brought by the Roman Empire via the silk road. Hermione – when I was a lot younger there was a show called I Dream Of Jeannie. The funny thing is three months after finding this your mother informed me she was pregnant with you. Strange, because I looked at this and thought: if only genies existed, I know I’d wish for a beautiful, bright daughter. That is exactly what I got. Keep this if I die, Hermione, because I can guarantee that it would offer you the same dream-come-true that I had. Now you know why I love Aladdin so much! Imagine I am winking to you at this moment. You allowed a little boy to believe in magic as a grown man, Hermione. Keep this. Thank you. I love you, my girls.”

Both women were almost choking on their tears by the end. Hermione rubbed her eyes with the heel of her wrist whilst Helen had bunched the rib of her cream cabled sweater in her spare fist as she took a gentle sip of her own tea. She glanced around the half-empty attic.

“It is rather soulless without Alexander’s things, isn’t it?”

“I’ve witnessed Soulless before, mum. This will be filled with someone else’s memories.”

“I suppose that is the best way of looking at things,” Helen sighed, her shoulders slumped forward. “You don’t mind if I go through these bags, just in case you threw something away that I might have wanted to keep?”

“Sure, but I SPY this Ottoman.”

It was an old family joke that had her mother chuckling through her sobs. Something her father made up when they all wanted the same dessert once that they were informed there was only one of and he’d decided to make a competition. First to say I SPY was the one it went to. Even that game would make no sense in the near future.

“Mum,” Hermione wheedled, “why are you marrying Lucius Malfoy so soon?”

Helen let out a deep breath as she considered telling Hermione the truth. Instead, her hazel eyes darkened, clouded, and she settled for the short version instead.

“During the summer holidays when I was between the ages of 8 and 12… We used to holiday in little villages around the county of our home, Wiltshire. Those few years we holidayed in this particular village because your uncle loved it so much before he… he….”


Helen nodded. “At the time of the summer fayre, with all the rides and all that, anyway I was lost one time and I bumped into this aristocratic frightening looking gentleman. He had a son a few years older than me with long, silky blond locks and the bluest of blue eyes. I was infatuated. Anyway,” Helen sighed, “the young boy was ordered to help me find my parents which he did – then, for some reason, we both found we had ill siblings and we wrote letters that deepened our friendship. That day when we met the Weasleys, we were still writing to each other, we locked gazes and all those old feelings returned.”

“HE HURT ME!” Hermione yelled unable to keep it in.

“I know but you must understand, darling,” Helen offered her daughter a watery smile. “His own father almost killed him for just being friends with me – if he found out…” there she stopped, too much said and unsaid between them. Hermione was clever enough to fill in the gaps.

“So, that’s…”

“I will tell you more once I am married. Then he will be allowed his say.”

“Sure,” Hermione mumbled as she allowed her mum to kiss the top of her head. “But you did love my dad, didn’t you?”

“Of course!” her mother rushed at her again, hugging Hermione quickly and warmly. “I will always love your father.”

Hermione nodded, deciding to leave the matter alone for another time. The wording did not satisfy her still, she mused; there were still too many memories to either keep or throwaway. Yet she had grown weary and needed to go downstairs and breathe some fresh air.


That was yesterday. Today she was back in her flat taking things out of her charm extended box and putting them in place on her shelves. Old photos she’d managed to nab before her mum found them and embarrassed her in front of Draco by revealing them, were placed in a hidden part of her bedside drawers. The crudely made, paint-splattered, glittery papier-maiché statues were placed amongst some fluffy toys she’d also kept from childhood on a white dresser in her spare bedroom. Jewellery boxes found a home in the matching slightly larger dresser in her bedroom. There were old paintings and sketches, and paragraph long stories she thought were the height of literature at five. They were enough to tug a sardonic smile to her face at the sight of her evenly spaced letters.

There were bundles of cloth of various fabrics and colours she’d thought to give to Molly to make clothes out of for her grandchildren. As she was bringing those out she heard a clunk on the floor. Her eyes fell on the bashed up ancient oil lamp that looked as if it had stories to tell if it could. Dented, scratched and dirt encrusted the object. For some reason, she felt pity for the item. It seemed as if it had been sorely abused throughout the centuries.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we,” she said.

It took moments to go to her open plan kitchen where she found the silver polishing kit. Delicately seated on a breakfast bar stool, Hermione got to work. Using hot water from the magical plumbers tap her new father had installed, making sure she’d had the highest quality, even though she’d said no to his generosity. Draco had told her this was how his father said sorry. She said she’d rather hear the actual words, to which Draco laughed coldly and said: Keep wishing, Granger, keep wishing.

She did refuse the offer of a house-elf.It isn’t unexpected to me, grinned Draco. It was after the flat was decorated and furnished in the style to which he would be accustomed to, and she could live with, that Lucius and Draco left her alone to personalise the space.

Although she had heard of legends involving genies and oil lamps they were, in the wizarding world just as in the muggle one, fairy tales to delight children. Even Lucius, who knew so much about wizarding history from a variety of cultures, laughed at the idea.

“Well, if one did exist that is what Tom Riddle would have spent years of his life finding. Imagine if he only had to wish for immortality?” She shuddered at the thought, “let’s get you all polished up, then I will take you to a specialist to have you put back into shape and you will make an interesting coffee table ornament.”

She sipped her coffee as she was waiting for it to drip dry on the draining board, reading what she had on Asian and Arabian folklore. Surely, her father was joking when he recalled the day he’d found IT, was the day she was conceived. If Wizards had not managed to find this, then how could a young Dentist from Cheltenham?

She took a clean cotton cloth from her drawer in the cupboard, set aside for cleaning products, and started wiping it dry. Once again she found herself wishing she didn’t have to see her mother marry the man who had tried to kill her on several occasions.

That was the last thing she remembered.




After Jasmine had freed the birds from their cage and watched them fly towards the sunlight, keeping her eyes on them until the smallest dot disappeared from sight, she smiled. She was about to go back to her room to think when she heard a gruff groan from behind her. That and the crunch of bone meeting stone. She winced at the sound and was hesitant to turn around when her pet tiger, Rajah, bumped his head into her midriff and maneuvered his mistress to face their intruder. Someone who had appeared from nowhere wearing some fairly odd robes.

“Oh, Allah!” she screamed. “Someone help me!”

Servants swarmed the palace grounds at the sound of their princess’ cries. Even Jafar, her father’s Grand Vizier, had rushed to the sound of her haunting cries.

Jafar soon noticed a wild-haired young woman, possibly slightly older than Jasmine, though it was hard to tell with her lying face down on the ground. She was loosely holding what looked like an old oil lamp. His cat like eyes narrowed to slits as he observed what he could of the witch. Witch she most definitely was: he could taste the tang of power rising through the air.

“Your Highness,” he purred in Jasmine’s ear, “I can take care of her with poultices and healer’s tips I have picked up on my travels. Do I have your permission?”

Jasmine turned to look at the man who always stood with a sneer behind her father’s throne and noticed he was genuine in his request.

“Permission granted,” she said then laid a hand on Jafar’s forearm. “Inform me of her progress – not my father – and place her in my bed for now.”

“Princess,” Jafar whispered. “What should I tell your father if he finds out there is a sick stranger in your bedchambers? You know how afraid for your safety he is.”

“Tell my father that I made this my business and if he has any concerns I shall discuss them privately with him.”

“That is well, your Highness,” Jafar purred, bowing low, making sure to take a sneaky peek at the slight form, admiring the smooth skin of her perfect body. “If she is to need around the suns cycle and the moon’s might to get well, do I have your authority to remain in your chambers until she is on her feet again?”

Jasmine nibbled her lower lip and nodded. “Of course,” she said, “but only until she can walk the length of the room by herself.”

“As you wish, your Highness.”

Already Razoul of the royal guard had turned up with his favourite band of soldiers, carefully lifting the young woman off the grass onto a stretcher made quickly using various servants robes. Jasmine noticed the girl was quite pale.

“She’s a Kafir,” screeched the servants, almost losing their grip and their sympathy.

Jafar pinched the bridge of his nose trying to off-set the threatening headache at the simpletons. If only Sultan Hamed had allowed at least the servants to have an education. as mandatory to work in the Palace, then he would have had less to explain.

The girl was comely now he had a chance to look at her relaxed features.

“If you illiterate imbeciles drop her due to your buffoonish bumbling, then I shall…”

“Jafar,” Jasmine interrupted, her determined stance and arched eyebrow silenced everyone, “justice is to be served by my father, not you,” the Princess reminded him.

“I was only concerned for the safety of the young woman under their care.”

Jafar had a point, as she had also witnessed them almost drop the girl. Silently, she agreed with him. Only after sighing and shrugging her well-rounded shoulders – causing her breasts to heave much to Jafar’s delight - did she offer him a stunning smile.

“I know, Jafar,” she whispered squeezing his forearm. “However, it is not their fault they are uneducated. It is not mine either, believe me,” she sighed, “I have consulted and debated this point with my father, but he states the law is the law and that’s that.”

“In this, we are of one accord, Princess,” Jafar smiled as he took her hand in his and pressed his forehead against it. “I shall be speedy in my healing of her. Worry not, we shall soon find out if the young woman is friend or foe.”

“Thank you, Jafar,” Jasmine smiled back, watching as he walked gracefully up the stairs.

Suddenly, she was assaulted by memories of her childhood. Recalling how she used to ride on the sweeping length of his cloak as he tried to walk, giggling when he growled and turned around to pick her up. She’d grabbed his nose in her chubby little hands; she’d smacked a big kiss on the tip.

Another one came to mind of when she was eight and had refused to learn her sums because all numbers did was give her a headache. After being unable to work out an equation, the frustrated tutor was so incensed by her seemingly unwillingness to learn, he laid bare his violent emotions. Much to her fear, her tutor gruffly pulled her hair back and gave her a huge slap on the face for displaying what he called: Spoiled indolence.

As the impatient teacher was about to smack her bottom Jafar walked in. She’d made a bid for freedom and ran towards him. He’d soothed her hair and promptly told off her tutor whilst she’d sniffled into his comforting embrace. Shortly after he handed the Princess to her nanny along with ointment, giving the nanny instructions on where to rub. It was not Jasmine’s fault she despised maths to this day and could only handle the basics.

A flash in her mind transported her, and she was 13. She’d started growing into her body, which drew in a visiting, travelling Sultan from another kingdom. He’d spent all his time leering at her, insisting that he speak to her alone. At times he’d made her laugh, giving her treats from his lands, and offered her a stay in his palace to befriend his own daughter. However, Jafar took it upon himself to vigilantly observe and guard the Princess, and when he had enough proof he bent the ear of her father. Once Hamed had learned what his guest was doing with his precious daughter, he and all his court were banished! Told firmly to never to return to Agrabah. After Rashida had calmly explained what the old Sultan had truly wanted. Jasmine ran to Hamed and cried into her father’s bosom.

So, what had changed? Why was he so harsh with her now? She could escape from the palace some other night. Jasmine had reason to remain there for now. She decided to help Jafar with their guest. Her father need never know.


The girl slept soundly in Jasmine’s bed, able to move though moaning with pain. She had been bathed carefully by Jasmine’s handmaidens who then clothed her in the Princess’ diaphanous lilac nightwear. Some had brushed the girls hair, smoothing down the waves and curls all whilst she remained sleeping. Flowers were arranged around her head. Nothing could be a more exotic sight to both Jafar and Jasmine.

It was a long night whilst Jafar worked to fix her broken ankles, cool compresses being used to reduce the swelling. An arm bore a word that made the Grand Vizier snarl. The huge scar looked as if someone had almost dissected her body in half. It was amazing to the Princess and the Grand Vizier that the girl was alive at all.

“What do we do Jafar?” Jasmine whispered.

“We will allow the girl to rest until she awakens and has the capabilities to speak. Look at the scars; this poor woman seems to have been under some form of torture.”

“What do we do in the meantime?” the Princess asked, for the first time noticing how deep his voice was and how she always seemed to have decent discussions with him when it truly mattered. “Do you truly wish to educate all of Agrabah.”

“I do, your Highness. I believe knowledge is power and we must not hoard such things. Who knows how much potential there is out there. Why, there could be the world’s greatest musicians, artists, artisans, writers, doctors, lawyers… we are only suffering due to ancient laws.”

“Women also?” her eyes shone as she leant her head into the cups of her palms, wide-eyed and interested in his views.

“I have travelled far and wide, your Highness, and in some lands, women are also educated. I have yet to see how an intelligent woman is detrimental, and a truly great man should have the most beautiful of women on their arms – attractive not only in body and visage but in mind as well. A truly accomplished man would see a woman of equal cerebral power as an asset to his own self. You, my dear, for instance, would not be wed to any preening peacock of a Prince – Achmed was less than worthy of you. Royal blood does not decree equanimity and completeness in marriage.”

“Then tell me, what sort of man should I be looking for?”

Here Jafar’s mouth stretched in a feline smirk as he gazed deeply into her midnight eyes: “A man of substance where it counts; a man who uses cool logic to counterbalance your tender heart.”

This flattered Jasmine but, she sighed, he was well into his thirties and she only sixteen. Besides, her father would never sanction such a pairing. Not after the elderly lustful Sultan, but Jafar had cared for her at times that her father should have. He was trustworthy.

Eventually, the moon rose, casting shimmering lucent beams in the room almost haloing the strange, light-skinned girl in the bed. It was only the sound of a long, drawn out moan, yawn and stretched (and an ouch) that woke Jasmine from her bedside vigil and had Jafar rising from his seat in anticipation.

“Where am I?!” the girl screamed.

“You are a guest of her royal Highness Princess Jasmine, future Sultana of Agrabah,” Jafar replied. Jasmine could not help but giggle at how crumpled his usually impeccable robes were. “Are you well?”

“I feel dizzy and I need something to quench my thirst,” she answered. “Did – did you say Agrabah?”

“I did.”

“Oh lummy,” Hermione repeated her mother’s favourite word she’d got from Carry On movies. “What… how… er and when?”

“I have no idea on the first two but the when – let me see – judging by your appearance I’d say you were European, the cooler parts – but with a touch of the tropics – in your calender, I’d say it is 1498 CE,” Jafar smoothly worked out.

“1498?!” the girl gulped, her eyes widened further, shaking as shock took over.

“What year in your calendar should it be?” Jasmine asked worried the girl had hit her head harder than she’d thought and caused concussion.

“Oh god!” Hermione groaned. “What a right mess I’m in. Ugh,” she groaned. “I really need water. I have a throat as dry as the Saharan desert.”

Quickly, Jasmine turned to a silver pitcher and goblet and poured the life essence in: “Here, drink,”

The girl took the goblet and sniffed the liquid before testing it on her finger and tongue. All actions Jafar approved of; this woman (for she was) had been taught well throughout her young life. Then she drank greedily and Jafar was mesmerised by how her throat muscles moved up and down as she consumed the fluid.

“That’s better,” she gasped. “So, let me get this straight,” she sat up, wincing but refusing any other help. “I find this lamp in my deceased father’s things telling me he thinks this is the reason why I was born. I clean it, dreaming that I was somewhere else and not having to witness my mum’s wedding to another man, and suddenly I am in bloody Agrabah – with a pulchritudinous Princess and a tall, dark, sinister-looking man.”

Jasmine’s eyes flashed hurt at the adjective and when the woman saw this she sighed: “I apologise, your Highness, I meant to compliment, not to disrespect you. It means beautiful – I was trying for alliteration. But, how can I understand you and you me?”

“Oh,” Jasmine said, somewhat placated but still confused.

“My dear,” Jafar had sidled around her. Allah was merciful: he was alone with the two most glorious women in the world. “When were you from and what are we to call you? As to how we are understanding each other, maybe that was part of the wish.”

My name is Hermione Granger – my parents are denti – people that heal the teeth of others – and I am lost not only through the streams of time but geographically too. I am from England in 1998. I have just defeated a Dark Lord and I…” she rubbed her throbbing forehead. “… I did not mean to intrude… tomorrow I shall be on my way to find someone to help, and I shall… shall…” she mumbled yawning.

“You shall do nothing of the sort,” Jasmine said. “If what you say is true you need protecting. You shall be afforded the greatest deal of respect by being presented as a lower Princess who has heard of the wonders of Agrabah. We can say you managed to ride your horse free of the bandits who killed all your crew. That should satisfy any naysayers.”

“Indeed it should, your Highness,” Jafar purred, giving Jasmine the impression he was a cat in a former life. He embodied a panther-like spirit.

“You two had best lie in bed and get some rest as I need to also. Princess, I would need all day tomorrow to perform tests and get to know Hermione a little better.”

“Yes Jafar,” Jasmine responded.
Jafar centred his gaze upon Hermione whose stunning honeyed eyes, reminiscent of ground cinnamon, cardamom, and ginger rendered him speechless. Her long wavy hair was shining with fragrant oils and her vulnerability in this situation poured from her soul and into his.

“I shall station guards outside the door,” Jasmine said wishing she could cup his face and kiss his nose like she did when she was five.

“I bid you both well,” Jafar bowed subserviently as he watched Hermione go back to sleep.

Patiently he waited outside a private vestibule that connected the door from the bathroom to the bedchamber, guarding the bathing Princess. Now clean hair wrapped in a towel she sauntered out past him into her bedroom, skin sparkling like moon dew in the pale haze of moonlight. She pulled on her equally luminescent yellow pyjamas.

She had three days to find a bloody suitor and her father’s anxiety bled through the Palace walls. Besides Jafar’s earlier comments about the kind she should wed, showed she was on the right path.

The Grand Vizier watched as Princess Jasmine crawled cat like on her bed to the headrest.

Tenderly, Jasmine stroked Hermione’s cheek and kissed her full on the lips like they were bosom friends or sisters and took hold of her hand. With the comfort of a bedfellow, Jasmine soon fell asleep beside a peacefully slumbering Hermione.

Later, Hermione woke due to thirst, recalling the days events as she drank from a silver goblet. Then glanced down, astonished that Jasmine was gripping onto her hand. Hermione frowned as her mind was racing nineteen to the dozen to gain a logical equilibrium, her troubled thoughts marred her peaceful rest the remainder of the night.

Jafar noticed the difference between Jasmine’s exuberance to befriend the first stranger she’d seen, and the troubling distrusting fretful manner as Hermione twisted her body mumbling words that seemed nightmarish to his ears. It would take but a moment to rest his body between these two beautiful women, but there was time.

Time yet to have some fun and finish searching for that wonder of all wonders – a cave of them if legend was to be believed. A genie would not be useful in a situation like this. Yet the only wonders his greedy gaze guzzled on was the sight of two young women sleeping their hands curved together. Heads bowed almost touching, both pairs of legs bent outwards, their kneecaps pressed together. Affecting the shape of a love heart with their bodies. If only a third curve was needed, he’d offer himself to complete it.

“Good night, sweet young women. Hold each other tight and remember – Jafar is your friend; with anyone else you’d be misled,” he whispered in each girls ear a few times. “Dream of the man you hope to somehow wed.”

Jafar crept out of the room and noticed the Sultan tapping his feet and scowling through the lambent glow.

“Rashida has just informed me that my daughter has offered a strange Kafir her bed and you are healing her. I would have thought I should be consulted before such…”

“So your Majesty would rather a stranger in our city, one who has signs of torture evident on her body, to see a cheap back-alley healer who would more likely kill her rather than cure?”

“Of course not Jafar, but…”

“I have nothing but true respect for you, your Majesty, but your tender-hearted Princess saw fit to heal and give her the best care. The young woman in question is little older than Jasmine herself, and they are now resting together. Kafir or not, do not our tenets decree we should welcome all who seek sanctuary? After all, a stranger is a friend one has yet to meet, your Majesty.”

“Did she say where she was from?”

“Small quaint village in England. From what I gather they have recuperated from civil unrest but the girl – being a minor royal born from the enemies camp - boarded a ship and joined a set of caravansaries, where they were set upon by bandits. I deduce an enemy rode near and threw her over the walls, perhaps to send a message. The young woman is of comely appearance and Jasmine seems to have taken to her already. At any rate, a female from a strange land may be able to sate the Princess’ curiosity and tame her wild lust to be outside the Palace walls. She needs to train her powers of judgement, and for you to trust her judgement in all things, Sire.”

“I suppose you are right, Jafar, as always, but you know how afraid I am since that corrupt Sultan dared grace my court.”

“We all fear for the Princess’ safety, my Liege.”

“You are as good to her as any Uncle, Jafar; been my eyes when I was too busy to see.”

With that, the Sultan lightly patted Jafar’s back before toddling off into the toy room. Which was precisely that: a Toy Room. The amount of childish games he had and played with made the Vizier cringe. He had a differing idea for what a toy room entailed and one day he’d hoped to introduce those young women to it.

He swept off to his chambers to sleep. It was a tiring day. Tomorrow morn he would strip his sinister façade and go in for the kill with Jasmine by making her see how he truly appeared. It would not hurt to charm their guest either.

As good as any Uncle,” growled Jafar as he ascended the winding staircase to the highest tower in the palace. He’d chosen it so he could look down on all of Agrabah and sneer at the idiots put in charge. They’d turned the once sparkling city into a shambles, “I sense that Jasmine and I see each other in an entirely more enjoyably different light.”


The next day Hermione woke to the sight of a young woman curled beside her, her slender arm wrapped around her waist. Hermione blushed. Not that she’d never spooned with Ginny before, at Grimmauld Place, one time even finding Ginny groping her before she woke; the girl just giggled and winked as she said that she would not mind the sentiment returned. Suffice it to say Hermione was never brave enough to enact her curiosity, therefore disappointing her friend. This was Princess Jasmine, a woman she hardly knew. The Princess had luxurious silken dark locks that made her jealous. Her lips were parted and pouting slightly.

The early morning heat had already penetrated the sheets, causing Hermione to perspire. Carefully she rose out of bed, stretching her arms then, with tortoise-like speed, walked towards a wide balcony. It was large enough to hold a bed, a dining table, even bookshelves along the curved walls. She winced as the powerful sun beat down and raised her arm over her forehead to block out as much as she could. She noticed she was in gauzy pyjamas that did little to hide much from the imagination.

Just as she was about to fully step onto the balcony she heard the bedroom door open. She watched as a servant girl entered with Rajah, a domesticated tiger who bounded up to her, purring his heart out as he nestled his frame next to hers. Never had she heard of a tiger being tame enough to be a house pet. Perhaps this was a runt and knew nothing else and quite frankly did not want to know anything other than the pampered life he’d come to adore.

Their entrance was followed by a tall man, wearing billowing red and gold trouser-pants that were tied at the waist by a red cord, a red and gold long sleeved silk tunic, and black outer sleeveless robe. Her eyes though were drawn to the peak of chest he allowed through a triangular cut at the chest bone, dipping down. Unlike most of his kind, he had an abundance of hair dusting his skin. His broad shoulders were signs he should have a thicker frame but had somehow kept his diet basic – reminding her of Severus Snape.

His thick kohl lined eyes were flicked at the outer corner’s, accentuating the already feline appearance to them. Sensual lips, also Snape-like, were smiling at the sight of her already up. It was his elegant fingers holding onto a golden snake staff, that she imagined Lucius would drool over, that held her gaze. When she drew closer she noticed his fascinating eyes were made more so by the gold and green flecks within the main scope of almost violet ink. She found herself breathless by his presence.

“Hermione,” he drawled, almost making her knees knock violently against each other. “I see my care to your ankles and limbs has superseded even my expectations.”

“I am just a poor patient,” Hermione mumbled as she found looking into his eyes held a hypnotic feel over her, as if he would make her do whatever he desired her too. “I like to be up and about as soon as I can. A trait I inherited from my mother.”

“Stubborn, strong-willed and…”

“Is that just a staff or…” she faltered as his gaze hardened, and she barely heard the word: Impertinent, before gathering her courage. “I ask because I wish to er… try something…”

“Certainly, Hermione,” he murmured. “Here, though you may not be able to lift it.”

Despite her diminutive stature she held the staff aloft and pointed it at Rajah, channelling all her energy to shrink him to the size of a cub. Suddenly she could only see an orange and black tiger cub who mewled and blinked innocently. She knelt down, holding onto the staff tightly. Then with pursed lips, she whistled and coaxed Rajah to come forward and smiled as he wriggled and squirmed in her arms. Quickly she put the tiger back on the floor and then pointed the staff at him again, bringing him back to his normal size. He butted Hermione’s hips with his head and rubbed his whole body length against the girl’s body, wrapping his tail around her waist.

“The sound of his purr is causing me to be homesick,” she sniffed. “Can I stay here Mr Jafar?”

Jafar softened at the vulnerability in her question. “There is no doubt of your staying here, Miss Granger, but my surname is Abd Al-Qadir. However, I hope I have shown I am your friend and your confident.”

“Yes,” she whispered as she felt a different type of heat oozing forth from the man’s body. “I am surprised you are not arresting me,” she whispered. Jasmine was still sleeping peacefully. “I have displayed powers.”

“Ah, but you were confident in your abilities and your intuition that I too am an ardent student of the Art.”

“Thank goodness,” she sighed. “I can click my fingers and cause bluebell flames to burst forth.”

“Show me,” he had his hand curled around her waist. “I promise never to expose you.”

Her puppy dog eyes were almost enough to melt his heart: “Thank you, you are truly kind,” she murmured as she turned around, accidentally finding herself in his embrace as he kept his eyes on her. She felt warm flesh rub up and down her back, “do you believe in lust at first sight, Mr Abd Al-Qadir?”

“Hmm,” Jafar murmured. Holding her this close, meant Jafar could inhale her. Jasmine, Rose, and Cardamom lured him. Depths of Patchouli and Neroli enticed him to more to the beautiful sorceress in his arms. “I am starting to,” he murmured, his lips hovering above hers so close they were almost touching, their throbbing lips needed each other.

All Hermione did was glance through sooty lashes and Jafar felt possessive, allowing the emotion to push his mouth onto hers rather aggressively, allowing his fingers to bind with her luscious locks. She moaned and nibbled his lower lip with ease.

“More,” she begged.

“That is enough,” he gasped as he gently pulled away leaving her shivering in his arms. “The servant girls will be arriving soon, and we must be discreet.”

“Hmm,” she moaned, “agreed.”

As promised, the room flooded with servants and Jasmine woke up seeing her new friend in the vizier’s arms. A small amount of jealousy gnawed in her gut. The Kafir’s generously proportioned curves hit all of the Princess’ insecurities. It was surprising that her things fit her guest at all. She watched as her Grand Vizier seemed to be aiding Hermione to move.

“Grand Vizier,” Rashida snapped. “The Ladies need their bath. It is immodest to have you here. Now shoo!”

Jafar hated this woman. Unfortunately, she was Razoul’s wife and part of the palace scene along with their boys, so he grit his teeth as his eyes flashed disdain.

Although, judging from earlier behaviour, Hermione would not have minded if he watched her bathing. With a stiff turn on his heel, he began to leave.

Once they’d breakfasted their time was their own. Jafar would join them at the large lake part of the grounds, where they were likely to swim. He knew because he’d caught the previous Sultana doing so.

Jasmine’s former step-mother was as insipid as she appeared. Hamed’s lazy attempt at peace from a neighbouring nation, with promise of a son, back-fired completely. However, Hamed was also watching his wife’s debauchery and attempted to have her beheaded. She’d fled with some of the palace’s treasure due to Hamed’s soft heart and refusal to throw her in the dungeons. He mourned her as if she’d died. Thankfully Jasmine was too young to remember her. Despite the royal guards thorough attempts to find the harlot and thief, she’d completely disappeared.

The matron of the servant girls shuddered as it appeared that he was almost floating out of the room.

“That man gives me the chills,” Rashida said to a group of her favourites under her command. “I do hope you girls have the sense to refuse his embrace when given.”

The girls shuddered at the thought, but some were glancing away to concentrate on their tasks of bathing and beautifying the two ladies. Rashida had split the girls into teams. Her favourites were tending to Jasmine, the others to Hermione.

“What is your name?” a girl asked Hermione.

“My name is Hermione. It’s Greek,” she sighed. “My surname is of French origin but anglicised, its Granger.”

“Are you of noble blood?” Rashida asked. “In England where you come from, are you revered?”

“I am,” she replied blushing. It was not a complete lie. “My country had civil unrest between two factions. I was raised among the losing side and all my blood and kin were killed in battle or slain by torture. I escaped by disguising myself as a boy and boarded a ship. The crew protected me when they found out I was a girl – we got as far as the port of Agrabah where there was to be an exchange of goods. Some decided to protect me as I wished to see the city itself. Well – before we got here bandits attacked us and I don’t remember the rest – nor how I appeared in the Palace gardens.”

Good job Jafar schooled me on the story we are to tell.

Rashida narrowed her eyes; “My Razoul would never allow someone in uninvited.”

“I’m sure not, Madam, but there you are. I’m seeking, not only sanctuary but shelter also.”

“She is my guest, Rashida,” Jasmine said rather stubbornly. “I expect you to treat her with the same humanity you treat me. Is that clear.”

“Yes, your Highness,” Rashida muttered. Though Hermione knew this foreigner would have to be kept an eye on.

“What shall we do today?” Jasmine asked Hermione.

“This is your home. What is there to do around here?”

“We have a library where we can read. Or we can swim in the lake. There are also some gardens set aside for me - for us - to weed and look after.”

“Or,” Rashida yanked a brush harshly through Jasmine’s hair. “You can read your letters, learn your numbers, and wait for the thousandth Prince to come for your hand.”

Jasmine rolled her eyes. She’d forgot Achmed was not going to be the last. There were still older Sultans to consider or younger Princes that she’d have to wait until they were older to consummate anything.

“Who is arriving today?” Jasmine asked bored already.

“Prince Omid from a Persian tribe,” Rashida said. “Said to be handsome and kind, now if you would only get your head out of the clouds and down here on Earth where it belongs you would see him as such. Two days – remember – Two Days!”

“Two days for what?” Hermione asked.

“Our headstrong Princess has to announce her intentions to wed. The whole kingdom has been on tenterhooks waiting for her to make her decision.”

“How old are you, Your Highness?” Hermione asked. She’d sensed that Rashida would not take kindly to her calling Jasmine by her first name.

“I am to be sixteen when I am engaged,” Jasmine sighed as the girls were now pushing golden rings of various sizes into her hair. The top one held lapis lazuli, amethyst, and diamonds. The others that followed were varying shades of Amethyst. “All Princesses have to be wedded and bedded by eighteen after two years of engagement.”

“So, why can the announcement not wait until nearer the time?” Hermione asked.

“You tell me,” Jasmine sighed, “I cannot talk to my father because he thinks women are not intelligent enough to look after themselves.”

“That is completely wrong!” Hermione exclaimed her hand rushing up, almost destroying the floral decoration the girls were placing throughout her copious curls. “I am nineteen and had to hold a sword to stop people from being murdered. I can fend for myself.”

“That is neither here nor there,” Rashida interrupted. “You are a guest in our lands. It is not your place to argue with centuries of tradition.”

“Would a Prince be under the same cruel stipulation?”

“No, he would not,” Jasmine replied.

“I will not allow such seditious talk to be said. If neither of you can say something sensible then keep your mouths shut.”

So they did, though neither missed the eye rolling and the smirking of the other. Jasmine was heartened to learn that this young woman was of her opinion. Once the girls were decorated, Rashida urged them out of the room. Hermione had to lean a little as her ankles were still fragile. The burden was soon relieved when Jafar’s eyes rested on them. Breath completely taken from his body as Jasmine was dressed in oranges, yellows, and gold and her companion arrayed in fresh greens, lilac greys, and silvers.

Their eyes were lined perfectly with black kohl and lips stained with the juice of berries. It was the arrangement of Hermione’s shining waves that showed off the burnished coppers, dark woods, and light blonde shades that dropped his jaw. White and pale pink flowers picked up on the tint of her cheeks. Nothing looked softer than her in the harsh Agrabah sun. Her fuller figure had been made more tempting by how the saris were arranged, flattering her curves.

It was then Jafar escorted them both down to the dining parlour where Hamed was already sitting, waiting for his daughter to show up before tucking in.

“Your Majesty,” Jafar silkily bowed. “May I present Miss Hermione Granger from England. A noble from the lower orders.”

The Sultan’s eyes widened with joy as they alighted on Hermione: “Such a pretty young woman. You do not have any brothers, by any chance?”

Sadly, Hermione lowered her eyes and fiddled with her bejewelled fingers. “Sadly, they all died.”

“Oh, my poor dear,” Hamed said standing up and giving her a pat on the arm. “Agrabah as a city is generally welcoming, and please stay in the palace as long as you wish. My daughter has always complained that there are no other women to keep confidences with.”

Jafar spoke up: “I shall inform Rashida to give our honoured guest a set of rooms near the Princess.”

“Thank you, Jafar,” the Sultan beamed beatifically at the tall man. “I see you have already given our recalcitrant reasoner a gleam in his eyes and colour in his cheeks. I hope he will consume more victuals too, as he is thin as a rake.”

“As ever, your Highness, I eat to live. I do not see the joy in filling my body against its will.”

“Nonsense, Jafar,” the Sultan waved his hand dismissively. “You are no longer the poor young lad I met by chance by a jungle stream. Besides, I am sure that Miss Granger here would prefer to look upon a sated man.”

Both Jasmine and Hermione blushed at the inadvertent images that the Sultan in all his simple semantics had meant innocently, playing through their minds it opened their eyes to Jafar being a man. A highly intelligent and particularly graceful specimen. Neither noticed how Jafar gazed upon the softer rounded features of Miss Granger, and how she glowed against the crystal clear azure skies above. His hidden heart had leapt to his throat.

“Now, let us break our fast, then I have kingdom matters to discuss with Jafar – I am sure you two can amuse yourselves?”

“Yes sir,” Hermione replied.

“Please, do call me Hamed.”

“Hamed, you must refer to me as Hermione.”

“There that’s settled. Now a prayer to Allah,” she watched as servants laid down prayer mats and Jasmine and the Sultan faced Mecca to pray.

Hermione, not of any religious persuasion, decided not to offend her hosts and offered a discreet, silent prayer to God. Once gratitude was given they sat down to indulge in fruits, porridge, creamed lightly, spiced rice, and eggs.

The Sultan was right: Jafar did not eat as heartily as the others but he still managed to have a sample of everything on the food laden table. They drank squeezed fruit juices and fresh water.

“I am replete,” Hamed said with a little gasp of pleasure smacking his lips. “Now, I believe another suitor is coming to call. Hermione, dear, I do hope you can advise my daughter to be the well-behaved Princess I raised her to be.”

“Ladies,” Jafar stood and bowed. Making sure their eyes were on him, “I will be desolate without your enchanting company, Miss Granger, however, one must work hard to play hard.”

Hermione’s throat dried up immediately, blocking her tongue from replying to him - something he had anticipated. He smirked as he bowed again. Even Jasmine blinked. She was fast remembering more about this man. He really had been there throughout everything. Now, just as she was realising that she held a fondness for him, his attention was on their visitor. Jealousy was a foreign emotion to the girl who had everything. Then she felt petty: this girl had lost all her family. Could she really be that selfish that she would tear them apart?

Perhaps, if they really got on well together, they could share him as sister wives? Then Jasmine shook her head. The new Prince could be the one she has been waiting so long for. It was good to know he would not arrive until late evening. It gave the girls the day to bond.

Jasmine was fascinated by the stories she was eagerly listening to that poured forth from Hermione’s mouth. They giggled as they shared quips and embarrassing memories together. Elegantly they sauntered aimlessly around, arm-in-arm as they walked the extensive grounds. When they had reached the shores of the lake they decided to rest under the cooling shade of a weeping willow. It was now Jasmine decided to broach the subject she’d been keeping in mind throughout the morning.

“Do you like Jafar?” she blurted out allowing her insecurities to shine through.

“Is it that obvious?” Hermione blushed. “He reminds me of someone I used to know. The cleverest and most cunning of men, bravest too, yet everyone doubted his motives until he was slain in front of me. With his last breath, he declared he was glad to die for our side.”

“I ask because if this Prince is not the one I am wishing for, I am considering asking my father how he’d feel about a union between Jafar and I?”

“Would that be allowed?” Hermione gasped.

“He’d make a far more useful Sultan than my father. As much as I love him, my father has often been conned out of his riches. I do not wish that to be the case anymore.”

“What do you suggest, as it seems we both like him?”

“That we become sister wives,” Jasmine said without blinking or hesitation in her voice. Hermione gulped at the thought, but Jasmine just giggled girlishly: “I did not mean it in a lewd manner. We would share the same husband, not the same bed.”

“We did last night,” Hermione mumbled.

“Because you were unwell. You seem to be better now, and you shall have your own separate rooms.”

“What can I offer here though?”

“Friendship for me,” Jasmine said. “You can regale me with stories from the outside world. My father likes you. Even Jafar seems to have lightened up at your unexpected arrival.”


Prince Omid was decidedly not her dream-come-true Prince. In fact, Hermione had noticed the young man was more interested in the servant boys than in her new friend. Hermione was more than certain that he was the youngest prince and one that also refused to marry due, clearly, to his preferences.

Whilst Jasmine was bravely offering stilted conversation on her side of the table, Hermione was narrowly watching every move the fatuous young man was making with his eyes. He was as handsome as the gossip indicated, but he was also as interested in Jasmine as Hermione was in Harry Potter.

“Forgive me,” Jasmine stood up interrupting her father’s jovial chatter. “I cannot stay awake a moment longer. Hermione, would you please escort me back to my chambers.”

“Jasmine, we need to discuss…”

“There is nothing to discuss, father,” Jasmine levelled a gaze at the Sultan. “His Highness Prince Omid is as dumb as a mule and as interesting to listen to as a squealing pig. Hermione, please do chaperone me to my bedroom.”

“I object to being called a squealing pig by a snobbish child,” Omid snapped, his high pitched voice caused Hermione to wince. “And I will not be looked down upon by an infidel who clearly is here to solely corrupt our women and girls into an uprising.”

Hermione turned around and glanced down at Omid’s thin hips and smirked: “There will clearly be nothing to rise up, from what I can gather. Poor boy,” she smouldered, “to be so deceived into thinking that my skin and origin is ungodly. Surely, Allah teaches love and respect?”

“Not for people like you.”

Hermione chuckled throatily as she turned around swaying her hips: “Let me tell you something: perhaps your parents were correct to name you Omid – as a term of hope – they certainly needed all the hope they could get to put up with a supercilious scornful brat like you. I am a kafir, but at least I have taste. Whoever told you red was your colour lied to you.”

With that, she turned back around on her toes. Threading her arm through Jasmine’s, the girls walked off together, giggling and whispering to each other. Jafar’s eyes widened with further appreciation for the way Hermione dealt with things. Admiring her staunch loyalty towards Jasmine, a fine quality in a wife.

“Sire, to wed Jasmine off to this blithering buffoon would be an insult to Agrabah,” he said smoothly to a wide-eyed Hamed who’s fixed gaze was where Hermione last stood. “No one could be less worthy of the Princess.”

“Right,” Hamed shook his old head. “Of course,” then he sighed as he turned to Prince Omid, “I am sorry that you came all this way for nothing, but you may stay the night, rest, and be off at dawn.”

By now Omid had caught the eye of a pretty boy and nodded in response.


“This is going so wrong!” Jasmine moaned. “I have met prince’s from so many lands yet none of them, not one of them, appeal to me in the slightest.”

“Perhaps, that is because what you truly desire is already in the palace?” Hermione ventured. “You were the one to suggest we share Jafar. How long have you held feelings for him?”

“I don’t know,” Jasmine sat on the centre of her bed with her knees drawn to her chin and Rajah growling in consolation at her feet. “It seemed he was always there, making sure I was never hurt. Once an elderly Sultan abused his time here by trying to wed me in secret when I was 13; Jafar found out, and my father had him forcibly evicted from the Palace. I developed a fascination then as my saviour. Then something happened last year, and we had this weird energy…”


“I suppose that is the word,” Jasmine smiled. Quietly resting her cheek on her knees she looked at her friend. “Perhaps you’re right,” she sighed. “Perhaps no one is good enough because I need a man who will always make sure I am well treated. He’d never hit me, or yell at me, yet he always offered stern advice and criticism. Sometimes I took it personally,” she said. “Always so stern, you know.”

“Yes, I knew and held a secret admiration myself on a man like Jafar when I was your age. Whoa, that makes me sound older than I am.”

“Are we decided?” Jasmine asked.

“Sister wives?”

The girls stared at each other and smiled as they reached an agreement through silent understanding.

“I shall approach Jafar,” Hermione said. “I am sure he must be pacing the hall wondering if we are well.”

“I will stay awake, do not worry.”

Hermione left her friend’s room. The swimming earlier had helped heal her ankles, so she was walking more than hobbling, though the walk through the hall was long. It was not until she had almost reached the other safe area of the Palace, that her ankle twisted below her suddenly and she landed weakly on the floor. Slowly, she crawled along the floor despite the sickening pain. Moments later her eyes landed on a pair of gold shoes.

“Aren’t you a lovely little thing,” a strange voice said. She looked up and gasped at the sight of a man in dark robes, his mouth covered by a mask with eyeholes so all she could see was the middle of his nose and cheeks. He had a dark voice. “What am I going to do now that you have blown my grand entrance?”

Hermione gulped as the tall, well-built man who kept himself covered closed the gap. “You are?” she asked.

“Cassim. You look European to me: skin as soft as silk and the hue of a delicate rose. Instead of stealing what I came here to steal, I may just abscond with you,” he whispered, tilting her chin up. “Men!”

Oozing from the shadows came a group of ten men surrounding her from all corners. She tried to stand up but winced as her weakened ankle made her collapse. She could barely stand up and not one of the men offered help, not even the charming sounding Cassim. All eleven remained as still as statues and quiet as mice. Then three men stepped closer to her, one held down one leg and one the other the third kept his hand around her throat applying varying degrees of pressure – then a fourth and fifth advanced and held her arms splayed. Cassim walking calmly around her as she laid face flat to the polished floor.

Unbeknownst to them, someone was watching. Iago’s eyes widened in astonishment at the sight of the new girl being laid flat, all animal senses were wired to wrong doing of the highest order. He flapped as fast as his wings could carry him to where Jafar had his evening sessions with the Sultan.

“Iago, what is the matter?”

“What is the matter,” he said the last few words the way Jafar told him to in front of either the Sultan and Jasmine.

“Is it the Princess, Iagno or Iagyes?” All this training was about to come to fruition.

“Princess Iagno!”

“Hermione, Iagyes?”


Ice cold fingers gripped his heart as his parrot repeated the word. Sultan Hamed followed on stubby legs and the guard followed them, their cutlasses out ready for the charge. Jafar had managed to surreptitiously cast a quiet silencing charm around the circle urging everyone not to move or speak. Razoul nodded.

The battle was short and brutal as all eleven men were cleanly knocked out and dragged to the cells. Cassim was the last to face Jafar. “You won’t get away with this.”

“Really?” Jafar arched an eyebrow. “I think I just have.”

Once they were gone Jafar picked up a quivering Hermione who clung onto him. Trembling in fear, she snuggled in as tight as she could, allowing his scent to calm her, warm her, and entrap her in a safety net she had no desire to leave.

“Your Highness,” Hermione managed to say through tears, “Princess Jasmine wishes to discuss something important with you.”

“What happened, my own exotic bloom?” Jafar whispered in her ear, his nose nudging aside her hair, his lips pressed against the height of her cheekbone.

“My ankle gave out and suddenly I was surrounded. I was before. In my past, before I came here. You have seen the word on my arm?”

“I can cure that if you wish. You and I are to be adored. You are to be worshipped.”

“That’s just it, Jafar, I am not the only woman in this palace who desires your admiration.”

“You and the Princess?” he asked shocked – the whispered words were just that, whispered. A hope against hope that the subconscious would work its own magic. “We barely know each other?”

“A marriage lasts a lifetime, long enough for us to get to know one another.”

The Sultan walked out of his daughter’s room, his brow furrowed in confusion. He looked at Jafar and the young woman in his lap.

“There you are then,” he said in befuddlement at his daughter’s stubborn choice. “My daughter wishes to wed you, Jafar.”

“Me, your Majesty?” Jafar stood up keeping Hermione next to his body so she could stay up.

“Well, she says our guest is also to wed you.”

“How do you feel about that, sire?”

“If my daughter weds you, you will become Sultan on the return from your honeymoon.”

“Yes, I will, won’t I?” Jafar purred. “It is not unheard of in Agrabah to have two Sultana’s. In my history lessons, when I was a lad, your great-great-great grandfather had three.”

“I know,” Sultan Hamed sighed. “We have been hosting dinners and parties for eligible suitors all around the known world we could reach. How deucedly odd that we needn’t have bothered. All she had to do was like you, Jafar. I suppose wedding an English Woman will also help in trade routes to London.”

With that, Hamed tottered over to his toy room like he always did when he was confused over any problem like his daughter wanting to wed his Loyal Advisor along with their enigmatic guest.

The kingdom of Agrabah let out a collective sigh of relief that Jasmine had finally settled on a suitor. Even if it could not be a political match it was still a way to secure the royal rule with the better part of the royal family. Two Sultana’s also promised a successful abundance of sons.

By the end of the month, the marriage had taken place. The reason for this was to allow time to get to know one another and work as a team. There were some arguments, but all solved later with midnight strolls, kisses stolen in the shadows, and the respected need for personal space.

The entire palace was in a flurry of activity that day. No one seemed to rest from the moment of cock crow at morning to the sinking sun in the evening. Yet no one was more tired than Princess Jasmine who wished to consummate the union later.

Leaving Hermione alone with Jafar.

They blushed as they held hands chastely by the shore of the Palace lake underneath the weeping willow, protected by her bough, dappling them in moonlight.

“Nothing can be more perfect,” Hermione sighed.

“Oh, I can think of a few things,” Jafar breathed heavily onto her milky shoulder, dotting kisses along the centre, “such as being married to the world’s greatest wonders. For such a wonder you are, Hermione,” the compliment was punctuated by a kiss under her ear. “I cannot wait to explore you, my little sorceress,” he hissed as he wrapped his arm around her exposed waist, her belly now sporting a diamanté jewel and her body covered in intricate henna tattoos. “Together, we shall rule all of Agrabah – we shall extend the kingdom and make this city a beacon of trust, hope, free education and health care.”

“Hmmhmmm,” she moaned as the rustle of fabric seemed to turn the heat up. “I think this calls for our own celebration, my love.”

Love? No one had ever said that to him before and yet it was palatable to the ear and to his melting heart.

“We most certainly can,” Jafar growled.


Her body blushed beautifully under the pale moon. Jafar was mesmerised by how languid she was. Moon calf eyes fell on where the disgusting word was once scrawled cruelly in jagged letters. Jafar, good to his word, had cured it so not even white lines were visible.

His kisses became more insistently pressured to her skin, she was sure her shoulders and neck would be forever showing the imprint of his passionate onslaught on her body. No one had ever made her feel as powerful or gorgeous as this wonderful sorcerer could by just looking in her eyes.

Mewls turned into deep moans, that crescendoed into little growls – Hermione had calmed down from the day by just his answering hungry groans he uttered against her warm skin. Groans that vibrated into her flesh down to her womb that seemed to be churned into the consistency of melting butter, she held no control as he was the one spreading her out on the flat of the grass.

Her legs splayed apart, revealing secrets few had seen before. Jafar spotted to his delight, how her eyes glazed over lustfully, a sight that had inflamed his desire. Enjoying the delicious picture she created, as she was enshrouded in resplendent rutilance. Her ruddied cheeks, coupled with her luscious locks, fanned out behind her transcended her beauty equal to Athena.

Slowly he peeled off his outer-robe, making her eyes widen with curiosity that needed sating, yet he was determined to make her wait. The sultry Sultana still required preparation, and he desperately desired her to wait so her seam would be drenched in liquid lust.

She writhed on the ground as her hand reached down her stomach with her curious fingers, but he’d have none of that; no, he shook his head and smirked. With a small flick of his wrist, her arms were above her head, her wrists tied together, with a delicate rope tight around the trunk of the tree. To make doubly certain, Jafar had stuck the cord to the tree trunk with its own sap.

“Jafar,” she keened, agitated that he was taking this at the pace of a lazy tortoise.

“All good things come to those who wait, Sultana,” he said coolly though he was anything but level-headed.

All laid out and nowhere to go but to heaven with him guiding her there, she gulped as he straddled her above her hips so that she could not even move. Then Jafar unhooked the fastenings of his ceremonial white and gold tunic – teasing her by the pace of which he peeled that garment from his body. Due to the grooming part of the ceremony, Jafar’s chest was slick with fragrant oils and as hairless as a new-born. The dark hardened nipples stood out, glistening from sweat, begging to be suckled and claimed.

Against her stomach, she felt the sizeable length and width of his erection prodding her belly button, making her try to arch her hips up. She desperately desired to swallow that thing whole within her, anywhere that it could go. She sighed, wishing she could stroke his hair. The fecundity of follicles he’d secretly possessed, exhilarated her through the use of magic for his new young brides.

“You’re so gorgeous” Hermione sighed as she tried, yet again, to free her hands so she could touch him.

His lips twisted into a smirk that reduced her to a swooning mass of giggling hormones. He leaned down so all she could see was how dilated his eyes were. She was proud she could also turn this great man into a lesser version of himself.

“Let’s see how much I have affected you, dearest Queen.”

Long arms were a great asset at a time like this, he mused as he reached behind him. Tips of curious fingers stroked her inner thighs, now spread wider than before with feathery strokes. Starting from just above the knee, back and forth, with every forth touch edging further up ‘til, eventually, he reached her core. Tenderly he caressed it within his palm through her clothing, all the while ignoring her squeals, cries and pleas for mercy as he continued stoking the fires of desire within her.

“Ja… JA…. JAFAR!” she stuttered as she felt him apply pressure to her. rubbing her through clothing. All the while he pinned her down so all she could do was thrash her legs and twist her torso. “JAFAR! PLEASE!”

This was a whole new sensation, to hear his name yelled out in true passions cries instead of the fake ones whores and servant girls had given him in the past. It was then he decided to free her from her clothes by using the tip of his right pointer down her saris, splicing them in half. The heat of the enchantment sent one large flame into a raging forest of fire, increasing her yearning and her strength as she tried to unsuccessfully twist her wrists out of the bindings.

Once her robes were split down the middle of her body, he then physically ripped the seams apart from her sleeves at the shoulders and down the outer lengths of her trousers. He made sure she was not quite naked but enough to show her form and the shuddering skin glowing beneath him.

Never before had he noticed the size of her breasts: they were twin orbs as glorious as the moon up above and he could not wait to explore those properly. Right now, though, he’d have to provide minimum care and attention. The girls - as he thought of them - were almost begging as much as she was. Deciding to show a little clemency, Jafar bent down and carefully pulled one of the ruddy nipples into his mouth, laving it with his tongue. The idea of this being a soothing exercise was lost with every scrape of his teeth against the aching tenderness.

Zings of lust sped down her spine, into her molten legs, and curled down to her toes that scrunched into her soles. She twisted against him, his own passion pronounced in his own groans that vibrated through her body.

“The love of…” she growled as his hands had found themselves into the depths of her hair, nails scraping into her scalp where goose bumps riddled her body. “Jafar, please, have mercy,” she whined, wishing she could also dig her fingers into his scalp to return the favour. “I am desperate here.”

Here?” he asked as he stretched his head to press his lips against the crux of her throat, scraping teeth against the column from the lobe right down her shoulder. “Or maybe here,” he moaned as he suckled the lobe. The clanking of her ruby and diamond earring in his mouth strangely sent her into a head spin and her legs came up so far that the heels of her feet were pressing into the small of his back. “Perhaps,” he moaned into the same suckled ear, “you need me right… about… here…” he slowly lowered his lips to hers, nipping her lower plump lip of her mouth. “Definitely, here,” he grinned as he licked around her ever delicious mouth.

Taking a cue from him, Hermione nibbled his lower lip until it was almost as plump as hers. Both were mesmerised by the sight of their glistening lips and darkened gazes. Silvery light turned her skin a lucent hue. She was panting heavily as he raised her head up so that she could taste his skin with a flickering of her curious tongue. The touch made his legs quiver against her waist.

“Enough of the games, Jafar, I am as seduced as I can be.”

“No one can be under-seduced or over-seduced, however, let me see for myself how seduced you are.”

With that he slipped down her body, burning from the scorching heat of her skin. He could sense her blood flowing around her body. Then the scent of her essence flooded his sensitive nostrils, and when he reached the source he was overjoyed at how her labia was shimmering from her lust.

“Mmm,” he moaned as his fingers parted her folds. She watched him taking a deep sniff before dipping a digit into the sodden well. He raised it into the moon beams and twirled it in the air, fascinated by how it was coated with true lust, the dewy sheen hypnotic. “Beautiful,” he sighed before he sucked his finger into his mouth. “delicious.”

Somehow this proclamation made her heart swell with pride. Oh, how amazing it was, that a powerful man was taking his time selflessly loving her. Jafar’s content humming, as he tasted her from his thumb, had given her thrills beyond any other.

“Please, Jafar,” she whimpered. “Can we please join now?”

The man above her gazed upon her flushed cheeks, outwardly calmly observing how her arms were stretched, her wrists twisted in the rope, and the panting causing her heaving chest to become all of what he could see. Tenderly, he stroked the damasked cheek, her head leaning into his palm, the corner of her lips moved against his flesh.

Tingles affected Jafar’s body from the slight press of lips. Words could not describe how he realised that until now, he’d never understood love. The woman beneath him was the physical embodiment of the complex emotion.

“Jafar,” she said huskily, hitching her knees up and widening the gap to allow him room to enter, “complete me, please?”

He could no longer deny her!


Well, maybe he could deny her just a little bit longer, he thought as he observed how she squirmed in the binding of her tied wrists. Red puffy cheeks stood out starkly against the lambent light of the moon, perspiration beaded on her forehead. Her body sinuously writhing along the ground reminded him of his favourite creature. He was transported to the time he was in the jungle finding plants to be used in his experiments. One had slithered up to him and gently wrapped herself around him, and he’d stayed rooted to the spot as she muttered in his ear the great things that he was going to achieve.

Dark, wavy locks were plastered to her face and the fanned out follicles behind her entwined with each other as a mirror to their panting bodies. Then her eyes were molten in their surrender. He could see the ropes were digging into her wrists and throbbing. Taking pity out on her, he flicked his own wrist, cutting the cords and releasing the rope that had bound her.

Tenderly, he took them in his own long hands, gently massaging life back into them. Letting the blood regulate back to her hands, it was a warm gesture that he’d never allowed anyone else. She had fine little fingers that he sucked into his mouth, causing her to mewl like a kitten.

Some part of him did not want the first time with his secondary wife (Jasmine being of noble Agrabah blood was Head Wife by default) out in the open where anyone could spy on their consummation – but another part of him was rather spurred on by the thought of the possibility of being caught in flagrante delicto.

She seemed too busy to care, gasping as his mouth released her fingers, then smiling languidly up at him begging him silently again. Firmly he placed the flat of her palms on his chest. Her feathery touch left a scorching trail of desire flaming in their wake as he guided them down his abdomen, letting her feel the map of his body. Then he let her go, allowing her to explore for herself. Shyly she travelled around his waist, crawling them back up his naked back, digging her nails in to test his reaction, and she was pleased when he growled in response. Then, like with her burnished locks against the silvery grasses, she twisted her thin fingers through his magnificently thick hair. As if she had no control she grasped the back of his head, scraping his scalp with her nails. Goose bumps speckled his skin and she dragged his head down to kiss him thoroughly.

“I am yours, Jafar,” Hermione moaned as she dotted sweet little kisses around his mouth. “Please complete me.”

“Let me do one more thing before I thoroughly ravish you, my sweet little papaya.”

The difference in nicknames confused her at first, but it made sense for the area and the era. Papaya fruit was better than half of the others she’d been demeaned with in the past.

“What do you mean…” she squealed delightfully as she found he had wrapped her legs around his neck. “Jafar?”

He loved how sweet smelling her essence was. He could no longer control his curiosity as he spread apart her shimmering pillowed labia folds and breathed in her aroma, inhaling her deeply as if he’d never smelled anything so delicious before in his life. He failed to notice how this embarrassed his lovely sorceress.

Using the tip of his long nose he nuzzled into her warmth, teasing her hooded clit. A silken thigh shuddered against his throat. A playful smirk painted his face, concealed from her, as a delectably wicked idea took hold in his deviant mind. With the tip of his tongue and nose, he worked at exposing the engorged organ. She was pulsing and sore from the nipping and scraping of his teeth.

This caused her to groan and keen with need. Her heels gripped the nape of his neck, thighs clamping his throat, effectively trapping his head in the apex. Her fingers were still buried in his hair. The little Witch was most certainly stronger than she seemed. Her iron hold could only mean one thing.

Grinning now, he turned to lick around the seams, and all he could hear were her approving cries of exultation. The tip of his tongue met her perineum, flattening his tongue against the deepest part of her, he swept it up towards her clit. He could almost die a happy man if he was suffocated by her, but that would be contrary to his aims.

The engorged clit was begging to be relieved by how red and hard it was. Without preamble, he sucked the sore bundle of nerves in his hungry mouth, alternating suckling, nipping and scraping until she was a shuddering wreck beneath him. He felt as if he could not be further entrapped by this odd woman who had so suddenly entered his life and heart.

He could feel her wound as tight as she could go. Deep moans vibrated straight to her core and she came shouting his name in exultation to the stars and moon. Almost purring with delight he was unable to remain silent: “The sweet taste of honey burned with the fires of Hephaestus, such delectable delight,” he praised her as he continued licking her, allowing her to ride out the rest of her orgasm in his mouth all the while swallowing the flood of essence from her. “Oh, my lovely little Queen.”

Her legs now loosened their hold on his head as they slipped down his shoulders and arms. Tenderly, he helped them along, setting them on the grass. She looked up at him with such adoration in her shining eyes, mouth parted as she panted, her whole body was blushing as ruddy as her cheeks. All these rendered her breathtakingly beautiful in his eyes.

Now, though, he wanted to complete her, but she had other ideas it seemed. Using her legs to entrap his body at his waist, she levered herself up by her elbows and with her hands pushed him back so now she was on top of him. What she glanced down on was a throbbing erection, a glistening bulbous head and rock hard balls.

“You must be in pain, sire,” she said, her voice matching the sultry hue of her eyes. “Let me tend to it.”

Straddling his thighs she flicked her hair over her left shoulder so she could return the favour. One hand had closed around his base, the other his shaft, and her own equally curious mouth took in the shining head. The tip of her tongue flicking out to taste the pre-cum, he was as affected by the vibrations of her mouth as she was by his. Eager hands pumped his length as she lowered her mouth further down. Now one hand had curled around his balls – the nails scraping along the sensitive skin.

“This. Is. So…” Jafar wanted to finish that thought, but to do so would be to complete her which he had not done so yet.

Slowly he let go of her head where his nails repeated what hers did on his scalp. Goose flesh now sprinkled her. Regretfully, this damasked delinquent would be finishing him off inside her mouth and not buried in her other orifice.

“Oh, but I was returning…” he placed a finger on her swollen lips.

“That can be done some other time,” he purred and panted at the same time. The flush on his cheeks carried on through his beard and down his throat onto his chest. “You asked me to complete you. Are you a…a…virgin?”

“No Jafar, but I’ve only done this four times and they were more for his benefit than mine,” she lowered her eyelids looking ashamed.

“Boys five hundred years from now must be dunderheaded dolts if they could not see the beauty of Aphrodite in you.”

Blushing now from his poetical praise she glanced demurely up shortly after, her wide smile showing off her pearly teeth. “So, what do we do?”

“What do you think, pussycat?” he murmured as he again nipped at her throat unable to go on without touching her with his lips. “I will let you decide how this should play out.”

Hermione gasped as his hands found her breasts and she tipped her head back, hair trailing to the floor in a pose of such decadence that, against the law or not, no man could arrest her for being that insanely beautiful.

Without knowing when Hermione was laid back on the grass. Her legs wrapped around the small of his back. Arching up as he slipped inside her inch by inch, stretching her walls. It felt like he was splitting her apart.

Once Jafar was confident that she was taking him in, he pulled back so he could feel her work with him. Possessively, he grabbed her hands, and held them above her head, he rocked his hips to match her thrusting.

Their bodies were ablaze, sweating heavily from passions embrace! At times ferocious as the sand storm of the desert. Sometimes they were as gentle as a spring breeze meeting the boughs of the tree. Their foreheads touched as he continued thrusting, rutting her almost to hell. They were so slippery they could barely hold their hands, so they went on to explore each other.

The heels of her feet kicked up and Jafar turned to lick the sweat off her thigh. Resting it on his shoulder, thus shifting her body so she could feel more of him. They allowed instinct to take over; they moved harder, faster, and longer into her willing body.

Eventually, the usually loquacious pair were resorting to animalistic grunts as their connection made them wish they could be fused together like this for all eternity. He was certain the slapping noises could be heard throughout the city - if not their exclamations and cries definitely could.

Her other leg curled around the small of his back, using that to keep him there, wanting to come but not before he did. Unknowingly he was waiting for her to come before him. If she’d had ineptitude and selfishness from boys before – he was out to prove that men were different. That he was a generous lover. After all, tomorrow he’d be consummating with Jasmine.

“Ja..far..come…come…Ja…far!” she continued yelling. “Please, Ja..far…you…come…now!”

The Sorcerer had needed to let go for a while now and she deliberately controlled her grip, tightening it on his member that was threatening to burst.

“Can’t…you…first!” he managed to grit out through his teeth.

“JA…JA…AHHH…FAR!” she screamed, and her walls caved in, the sensation rang through her body as her muscles grew weak and languid

That was when he pumped harder, faster, grinding her, practically drilling into her. His hands scrabbled for purchase around her waist, nails digging in leaving half-moon imprints on her flesh. The bruising pace he set them on was punishing and brutal, but she seemed to revel in it as she came again, and again. His thumb pressed firmly, massaging her clit. Causing her to become a quivering wreck of a woman. It was only when she’d become so limp she could take no more, that he circled his hips, increasing the sensations.


“MIAAAAAA!” he yelled as he spilled seed inside her.

Not knowing that, just then, they had conceived twins.

Once he was replete with lust and glowing with her light inside him, she was just staring up at the dappled sky through the boughs of the willow.

“Wow,” she said. “I had no idea I had to go back five hundred years to get the best sex I have ever had.”

“So much for progress,” Jafar sneered, causing her to giggle. Her sore breasts jiggled as though they agreed with the man. Thus, his attention was drawn to how luminous they were. “Forgive me but I must have another taste of your delicious breasts.”

This time he suckled on her nipples as if he were a babe coaxing milk out of her. Lazily, she stroked the back of his head.

“Jafar, what happens if I have to go back?”

“To your time?” he said, popping the breast from his mouth. “Then I will devise a way to get you back here where you belong.”

This made Hermione smile contentedly: “Or you could visit my time.”

“I may just do that,” he hummed as he put his attention on her other breast.

She was still twining her fingers through his hair: “I don’t want to go back,” she said decisively. “I wish I could stay here and live with you, and Jasmine, forever.”

“Forever is a long time,” the wizard said.

“Not necessarily,” she whispered.


“I wish for you to remain the age you are now permanently, and when Jasmine and I reach 30 to also remain the same age for eternity.”

They giggled together: “Ah the follies of youth,” he said.

“I am entitled to a third one,” she laughed. “That one is a secret.”

Neither knew but hidden in the chest of Hermione’s room an old beaten lamp had a nimbus glow surrounding it, tethered as it was to those of the Slytherin line of which Jafar certainly was. It now truly belonged to the determined, resourceful, clever and brave little Witch and the young, happy-go-lucky, free-spirited Princess.

“Well, it is unfortunate that wishes do not come true, Hermione,” he sighed as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and she shuffled into his embrace. Turning around so her head could rest on his muscular bicep, she studied the man’s wistful face. “I have learned that the hard way.”

“Did you not just have a hard way?” she asked with a teasing lilt to match her sparkling eyes. Her playful fingers massaged his firm chest and flicked his nipples.

“You little meerkat,” he grinned as he turned to her. “You are insatiable.”

“Right now all I am insatiable for is a soft bed.”

“I will wrap you up in my robe as all I have to do is pull up my pants for decencies sake.”

Once they’d covered themselves, Jafar clicked his fingers and his snake staff was within his hold. Circling the ruby eyes around their feet they found themselves floating on a black cloud. She clung to him the higher they ascended to the balcony of her private chambers.

“I need a bath and rest I think.”

“I shall see you tomorrow morning my dearest Sultana.”


Little did either know there were many more tomorrows to come.

Would you like to hear more?

Then please, pop by my tent anytime tomorrow, for I will gladly tell you the tale of The Eternal Sultan, His Wives and The Downfall of The Evil Serpent-Tongued One.

The End
For Now!