For reasons that I don't quite understand, I have been sitting on this chapter for a couple of weeks, nervous to post it. Maybe I was afraid that you would think that Martha's story is out-of-character, or too outrageous for the likes of her. Maybe I was afraid it would make the characters think too differently of one another (which is kind of the point, though). Maybe I was afraid to depart from the Hogwarts scene... I dunno. But it's been through three drafts and two Betas, and I'm taking the plunge! Here goes.

Probably not quite SFW, but still not quite "smutty" just yet. And fair warning, it's a lot of talking!

On a different note, once I realized where this whole Veritaserum thing was headed, I tried to make this chapter more beautiful and evocative than, say, squee-inducing. Please let me know what you think!

*Deep breath* Here we go. We left off after Professor Snape had spiked the Doctor and Martha's drinks with Veritaserum to find out if the Doctor was, in fact, who he said he was. (Barty Crouch junior, one-time escaped convict, as you may know, looks remarkably like the Tenth Doctor. Heh.) No one really knows how long it takes for Veritaserum to leave the system, especially a Time Lord's system...


PART III

The Doctor had left Hogwarts satisfied that the Order of the Phoenix had things under control. More importantly, he had left accepting that this was their fight, honouring Snape's request that he not intervene.

And so, newly showered, he sat dressed in a pair of brown plaid pyjama trousers and a blue tee-shirt, in front of the television in the TARDIS' media room. There was a bowl of crisps and two glasses of wine on the coffee table – all that was missing was Martha. They were going to watch Episode VII of Star Wars, not to be released until 2015, but he reckoned this tiny spoiler in Martha's world wouldn't do much harm in the grand scheme of things.

For the moment, he simply flipped through the channels and waited for her.

She appeared in the doorway, dressed in pink pyjama bottoms and her favourite black tank top that she wore for lounging. She was still running a brush through her hair, and before even saying hello, she perched on the sofa beside him and asked, "Okay, so what the hell is a Death Eater?"

He muted the television. "They are followers and practitioners of Dark Magic," he said. "Dark wizards, I guess you could say. But more to the point, they are adherents to the cult of Voldemort."

"He's the…"

"Charismatic Nazi leader, yeah," the Doctor said.

Martha nodded. After a beat, she asked, "And this Crouch bloke, he's a Death Eater?"

"Yep."

"And he looks a lot like you?"

The Doctor exhaled through pursed lips. "Apparently. Enough that it made Snape über-nervous."

"But I thought Snape said he was turned over to those soul-sucker things."

"Yeah, he did say that," said the Doctor.

"So how could he think you're him?"

The Doctor shrugged. "I dunno. They have magic. And moles in all the right places, or so it seems. Plus, Crouch escaped from prison once… who's to say he couldn't do it again?"

"I guess."

"I'll tell you, though, it's weird thinking there's some dark wizard out there who looks like me," he said. "Incarcerated and soulless or no. Too bad he couldn't be a good guy. That could come in handy."

"Yeah," Martha said, with a little flutter in her stomach.

"Ready for some pirated Star Wars from the future?" he asked.

When he aimed the remote at the TV, nothing happened. He cursed, stood up, crossed the room, and lifted the screen, making some adjustments. After a few seconds, the Star Wars theme began to play, and the iconic screen-crawl summary began.

But Martha was distracted. He hadn't done anything special – just adjusted the television. It was simply his presence. Over the course of this insane day, running on the treadmill of doom and then learning about humans who lived in pocket dimensions and performed magic… she'd managed, mercifully, to forget. But now that the dust settled around them, the familiar feelings settled back into her.

"What's wrong?" he was asking, before she knew it. He had caught her staring.

"I was thinking of what you just said about having someone handy who looks like you." Her heart pounded.

"Oh. What about it?"

"I just thought I might like to have two of you," she confessed, and her voice registered playfully, flirtatiously.

The Doctor took it all in stride, but she was mortified. What felt like a brick suddenly turned over in her stomach. What the hell had she just said?


She didn't know what had come over her, telling the Doctor exactly what she had been thinking. All she knew was that, in the moment, the only thing in her mind was the truth. A glossed-over half-truth didn't occur to her, let alone a lie, and she had felt compelled to speak, rather than omit the truth or remain silent. It was a bizarre feeling, and she didn't trust herself, so she was judicious with how much she spoke during the movie.

By the end, though, she was so into the film that she nearly forgot herself.

"That was amazing!" she emoted as the credits rolled. "It was everything I was hoping for! I can't wait for the next one!"

"You don't have to," he said. "I have it, if you want to see it."

"No, no, I need to absorb this," she told him. "It's like an edifying experience for me."

He smiled, and sat back against the sofa with his feet up. "Wow, Martha Jones is a Star Wars geek. I never would have guessed."

"I know, it's weird. I'm not into Star Trek or Lord of the Rings or anything else. Not even superheroes, really."

"So, what is it with you and Star Wars?"

"Well, for one thing, I have a special connection with it. With the original trilogy, anyway. I…" she was able to stop herself short, but only just, and with a herculean effort. And the truth was on the tip of her tongue, just waiting for her to open her mouth…

"Yes? What were you going to say?"

No way she could hold back now, now that he had asked. Reluctantly, but with some relief, she admitted, "I lost my virginity to it."

She gave a groan inside of her head. She did not need the Doctor knowing intimate details like this, especially if they were just going to come out of her mouth without her say-so.

"What, in a theatre?"

"No! God, no! I wasn't even born yet when they came out in the theatres!"

"Then where?"

"In a youth hostel while I was staying in Amsterdam."

He looked at her flatly, in mild disbelief. "You lost your virginity in a hostel?"

"Yes."

"While watching Star Wars?"

"Yes. Well, by then we had quit watching it."

"Youth hostels… people are packed in there against fire codes and just sort of crash wherever, am I right?"

"You know you are."

"So, can I assume you had paid extra for a private room?" he asked, smiling now. "Or that it was the night of a football championship of some sort, and the place had emptied out in favour of the pubs?"

"You can assume whatever you like," she said. Her cheeks were burning hot now. She sat forward and took a last bracing sip from her wine glass, as though it would help her to keep her tongue under control.

He gave her a quizzical smirk. "Martha Jones, I'm suddenly seeing you as a bit naughty."

And then his eyes opened wide, momentarily, before he seemed to recover. It was as though he hadn't meant to say what he'd said either.

In response, though his comment didn't require one, she couldn't help herself, she was inexplicably compelled to say something.

"I'm… moderately naughty. Depending on my mood."

She leaned back against the sofa with her arms crossed, resolved not to reveal anything else. What was this?

"Yeah?" he asked. "How's your mood now?"

"Very embarrassed," she answered, unable not to. "And you?"

"My mood is, in your words, moderately naughty." Again, his expression betrayed something of surprise. "Wow. Where did that come from?"

"I have no idea! You're the clever one! What is going on with us?"

"I don't know, but I don't seem to be able to stop."

"Me neither. Do you think we should stop asking questions?"

And from this point on, there seemed to be a thick fog in the room, a patina of innuendo and unspoken temptation, fascination, torment. It was so potent on the air, they were practically tasting it.

Through the haze, he answered, "I am torn between saying a sensible yes, and the fact that I've come over a bit bothered."

"What does that mean?"

"It means, I want to know about Amsterdam and Star Wars and the hostel, and your first foray into the art of physical love," he told her, a bit whimsically. "But I know that I shouldn't want to know, and it might open a huge can of worms."

"Well… it might make you think differently of me."

"That's what I'm counting on," he said, with low, suggestive lilt in his voice.

"Blimey," she breathed. Then, "Why do you want to know?"

His voice remained low. "I want to hear you tell it. I want to hear your voice saying the words."

"My voice? Describing…"

"Describing actions and desire."

"Because you've… come over a bit bothered?"

"Yes."

"Did I cause that?"

"Yes."

"Just now?"

"Yes," he said, barely audibly. "Well, no. Sort of. I've been slightly bothered since I met you. But tonight, with the Star Wars thing…"

"Doctor…" she whispered.

Temporarily showing some lucidity, he said, "Listen, if you don't want to tell me, then don't. I don't know what the hell is making me say any of it… but it seems that you can't say no if I ask you to, so I just won't ask you to."

"Okay."

After a long, heavily silent pause, during which they both sat with their arms crossed poutily, he said, "But… isn't there a part of you that wants to tell me?"

"Yes," she couldn't help but say.

She studied him for a moment. They were starting down a winding path, and if she took the next step, they would very likely never find their way back. Was that a good thing? And yes, something was coercing them into talking when they didn't want to, and reveal what was on their minds, even if it they'd really rather hide it. But one thing she reckoned: if he was being as truthful as she with his words, innuendos and expressions, then they were entering a new paradigm indeed. The Doctor had given her a look that he'd never given her before. He wanted intimate information about her, and wanted to hear her voice talking about awakening desire…

"I spent my gap year travelling round Europe, my friend Sandra and I," she began. This was more or less of her own volition. She had already admitted that she sort of wanted to tell the story, and she wondered how long she'd truly be able to hold back with this 'truth effect' thing happening to them, even if the Doctor never asked her to say anymore.

"Where did you go?" he asked.

"Started in the Hebrides and then across to Oslo and Stockholm. Then, a couple different places in Poland, the Ukraine, Romania, Austria, Italy, the south of France, Spain… we stayed in Madrid for over four months. Got pretty comfy there."

"I like Barcelona, myself."

"Then Paris, Brussels and The Hague, Amsterdam, Hamburg, Copenhagen, then home."

"Wow! That's quite a voyage!"

"When we were in Belgium, we met these two guys from Ireland, Michael and Rowan. I fancied Michael, Sandra fancied Rowan. They were headed to the South of France, but they decided to come to Amsterdam with us, instead because… well, you know."

"I can imagine why they decided to go with you. And they followed you to Amsterdam?"

"Yeah. You're thinking that Michael got from me exactly what he was after, aren't you?"

"I am."

She nodded. "And you'd be right." Then she sighed. "So, when we got there, to Amsterdam I mean, we four settled into this hostel and we were in a room with six bunk beds – that's twelve people, Irish, Brits, Americans, Germans and one Japanese guy, and we all sort of became friends. There was one television and a DVD player in the room, and one night, a bunch of us decided to get some wine and pizza, and stay in and watch Star Wars. About halfway through the first film, Sandra and Rowan were already snogging like… well, a couple of eighteen-year-olds who fancied each other and had had a bit of wine in a dark room. Eventually, they got up and left. They went to a hotel down the street, as you do, you know, when you're a civilised person.

"But Michael and I…" she sighed. "We sat on the floor against his bed, under a blanket, holding hands and snuggling or whatever. But we noticed about halfway through the second film that everyone else was either gone or unconscious. Two of the guys had been watching the TV from their top bunks, and they were out for the count. There were two girls in front of the TV on the floor completely dead to the world, and some of the others had decided to go out to a club. So Michael and I started to snog a bit as well."

"Even with four other people in the room?"

"Even with four other people in the room."

He shook his head, in mock disbelief. "This is nothing that I'd expect from you."

"I'm not as well-ordered as I seem," she said, her voice practically sing-song, with plenty of breath about it.

"I'm getting that," he told her with a smirk. "So then what happened?"

She sighed, and put her head back against the sofa pillows, and fixed her eyes on the ceiling. She was all too aware that the Doctor was sitting right there, listening, within an arm's reach. She could feel his weight on the sofa next to her, could feel his warmth, hear him breathing.

She spoke slowly, carefully. "So then what happened? What does happen in those moments? His hands wandered. He slid one hand up my shirt and squeezed my breast through my bra. It was the first time anyone had ever done that to me, and the sensation hit me like a gale-force wind. Just the suddenness of it, and the idea of his hands on me, in a place where no one's had ever been…"

She shivered, and continued, falling almost into a trance. "Such a simple thing, and… well, I'm older now, and have had a few other experiences sort of like that one. But I can still feel that frisson, the very first hint of my body coming to life. I was coming into life as a woman. It sounds camp, but it's a thing… it's a big thing."

"Oh, I get it," he assured her.

"He flicked my nipple with one finger, and I almost hit the ceiling. With that little gesture, I suddenly knew that in the next half hour, I would come to understand what all the fuss is about. I would know the connection between touch, and… and that need, that burn that bubbles up inside."

He spoke now, almost in a monotone. "And the connection between how the burn rises, and the next touch, and the one after that…"

"Mm-hm. Until the burn is…" and she made a noise with her teeth and tongue that signified sizzling, smouldering, an extinguished fire. She sighed lightly, with voice and breath. "I knew then that I'd leave that room in a different state of mind."

"Such a revelation," he said, low. "Just being flicked through a thin layer of fabric?"

Her voice came out as a half-moan, half-whisper. "Oh, Doctor, I was ripe for it. I didn't know it, but it was something I'd been needing. Some people make love before they're ready, before their bodies are ready to absorb the sensations. I was not one of those people."

"It certainly seems like you were… let's say, welcoming of the experience."

She mused, "I can imagine what someone might do if they're coming from, say, a lukewarm place – at least from the standpoint of a woman. I can't speak for men. But if you're a young woman, and you're not ready, then it seems like the experience would be wasted on you. The pleasure would be lost."

"How?"

Still keeping her eyes trained on the ceiling, she said, "There are channels through the body – paths that pleasure must take, and I find that I have to be conscious of it, to receive the full effect."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"Well, you know. If someone is, say, licking you in just the right spot… there are feelings. Tingles. But if you're at all distracted or nervous or disengaged or haven't ever considered the possibility of someone's tongue on your most sensitive area and how it might feel…" She was cut off by a wave of longing, and she closed her eyes, nearly choking on her words. The pain she felt talking to him was a more potent version of the familiar pain she'd been staving off for months.

"Yes?"

She shook it off, and tried to get back in the moment. "If you're not mindful, if you don't channel that pleasure, then it's just tingles. It incites some giggles, some squirms, and it's something to tell your friends. If you're on-point, though…" she exhaled heavily. "If you are fit for it, you can begin to latch onto those tingles and turn them into balls of fire, that jut through your arms, legs, torso. And eventually, they'll burn so brightly that make everything go rigid, make you arch, then cry out, and then they sort of explode through you, which is the objective, right?"

"Sounds like it to me."

"I learned about latching on that night in Amsterdam during The Empire Strikes Back. I'm telling you, that burn went straight from my nipple down between my legs, and I was… well, I was his, what else can I say?"

"I don't know," he whispered. "I wish you would say more."

She took a pause, confused as ever about why and how the hell she could be so frank. But then, she had, once again, the compulsion to reveal. "After a little while, he unhooked my bra and touched me, flesh-on-flesh, and again, another whole new sensation seized me. A new kind of warmth – a searing kind. And excitement. But I was feeling more than just anticipatory. I was, like, agitated in my own skin. Buzzing. Urgent. Desirous."

"Desirous," he seemed to say, almost without being aware of it.

"I had never felt that way before – I had never felt real desire. I could feel myself becoming different on the inside."

"Different?"

"Mm. I could feel myself… lubricating. Physically, of course, but not just that. I was becoming psychologically lubricated as well. Opening up and growing pliant and hungry all in these few moments."

"Don't you feel a little of that psychological lubrication with every new lover?" he asked. "Isn't there something of a giving in that has to happen, every time you decide to trust someone new? I find that there is."

"Oh yes," she agreed. "I'm feeling it happening now." She swallowed hard after she said it.

"Me too," he admitted. After a pregnant pause, he asked, "Where will it take us?"

"I don't know," she croaked, just barely, swallowing again.

"Please tell me more."

She sat up slightly and looked at him. "Okay, but will you talk to me when I'm finished talking to you?"

"Will I have a choice?"

She chuckled. "Touché." She sighed, settled her head into the cushion again, then went on. "I had to know if he felt the same way – was he getting the same revelatory sensations? Was he as ripe as I was? I still don't know if men feel the same spread of warmth that we do – those channels of pleasure I mentioned. But I only knew one way to try and find out, so I decided to be bold, and I reached down to the front of his trousers to see if he was hard."

"I can tell you the answer to that, and I wasn't even there."

"You're right. He was hard. Like a rock." She smiled at the memory. "And it sounds daft, but that was a revelation as well. I knew the mechanics of it, of course, that a cock grows firmer when it becomes engorged, but… that it would be actually hard like a bone, it both frightened and thrilled me."

"Why would it frighten you?"

"I don't know, exactly," she answered. "I suppose the idea of it being harder, less pliant than my own flesh… like a weapon, maybe. But like I said, I found it also thrilling. It made a kind of delicious sense when I thought about it with my whole body."

"You think with your whole body? That explains a lot."

"I think with my whole body, about being fucked." Her words seemed to hang softly upon the air like a bubble to be burst.

The Doctor took a deep, regulating breath. Then, "Had you never thought about it before that moment?"

"Of course I had, but not with any kind of… knowledge. Or immediate anticipation. And since meeting Michael, I'd thought about it more than ever."

"Lucky Michael, eh? That's quite the effect he had on you," he marvelled.

"Yes. An effect… to the point of distraction. Of ache."

"So it was Michael himself that made you ripe for it."

"I suppose it was," she confessed. "Although, I don't know if it was the timing, or if it was him. If I was needing it when I met him, or if the chemistry between us was just…" And she trailed off because she happened to turn her head just then, and noticed the Doctor's chocolate brown eyes gazing into hers. Neither one of them had any choice but to be truthful, and she could swear that she saw a certain thirst in his stare.

"Have relationships since then given you any insight?"

"Insight?"

"As to... was it the timing, or was it him? Was it about your own body, or about the chemistry?"

She held her breath. She reined in her voice and thoughts with everything she had, because she knew what would inevitably come out of her mouth.

"Yes," she uttered. The effort at holding back was herculean, and she ultimately gave up. "I've had a bit of insight since then. Because, only one other man has had that effect on me."

"Of making you feel ripe?"

"Yes."

"To the point of distraction and ache."

"Yes." She thought she might pass out if she didn't breathe soon.

"Do you want to tell me who?" he asked, his voice having gone hoarse.

She was not unconscious of how he had phrased the question.

"I do want to tell you," she said, and then she shut her eyes tight. "But please don't make me."

"Then, what happened next with Michael?" he requested softly. "He's hard, you're soft, you're learning something new every moment…"

"I squeezed and stroked him through his jeans. I heard him moan in my ear – moan and curse. First time I'd heard that sound... it was intoxicating, like I'd been given a superpower."

"Amazing isn't it, what that sound can do?"

"Oh, yes," she practically sighed. "His kissing became more insistent – harder, hungrier. His tongue was in my mouth, almost forcefully. He pushed it in as far as it would go, and then he pulled back again… and kept doing that. And with our hands where they were, and the moaning and the learning… that's when I began to throb. That's when my body became truly greedy. Ravenous. Because I had the distinct feeling that he was doing with his tongue what he wanted to do with his cock. So I grabbed him by the collar and pulled him sideways, and laid myself out on the floor on my back."

"Good for you."

Dreamily, she continued, "I was wearing shorts – no fasteners or anything. He just pulled them off me, then pulled the blanket over us. He unzipped his trousers, and his cock appeared, and I felt another momentary bout of fear. This was it – oh, my God, this was it. But I didn't have time to dwell on it because he just didn't waste time. When he pushed inside me… well, he was surprised that it was my first time, but it didn't stop him."

"It wasn't his first time too?"

She smiled. "From experiences since then, I'd guess that he'd been down that road quite a few times. For a gropey twenty-year-old on the floor of a hostel, he rather knew what he was doing."

"That is not how I expected the story to go."

"It wasn't what I expected either," she reflected. "For years, I'd been hearing that the first time would just be something I did, to get it over with. It would be painful – which it was, a little – and awkward and not at all satisfying. I expected that I'd have to wait until much later to have sex that would actually feel good, and make me crave it again."

"But you didn't have to wait?"

"No," she told him. "I craved it again as soon as it was over."

"That's rare, Martha. For a first time, your story is rare."

"I know," she lilted. And she stretched out like a cat, arms overhead, toes pointed. "Those channels of pleasure, from between my legs and outward, that made my fingers and toes curl… oh yes, I understood them now. In fact, I understood them twice that first night."

"Twice?"

"Yes."

He was silent for a few moments. "Twice is nothing."

"D'you think?" she asked, with a little smile.

"I mean, considering that you only have one first time. You must know now… in the arena of love…"

She continued to smile, and dared to look over at him. "You're saying you could top it. Leave twice in the dust."

"Definitely." He gave her one of those eyebrow-tilts that just about turned her into a puddle.

She realised, unsurprised, that she was quite aroused. She was feeling restless in her own skin, looking for a douse of something…

And she was not aroused with the memory, which she relived hundreds of times after it happened, but with talking to him about it. The fact that her voice discussing, as he'd said, actions and desire, was leading him to ask her more questions…

…making her think about fucking, and knowing it, relishing it, spurring her on, bringing her forward…

"And no-one woke up and saw you?" he wondered.

"I have no idea whether they did or didn't," she said. "It's certainly possible."

"And that didn't bother you?"

"No," she admitted. "It made it more fun. And it made me realise early-on that I wasn't going to be the sort of woman who just wants to make love in bed in the dark."

"And you're not?"

"Not by a long shot. I told you, I'm not as well-ordered as I seem."

"I guess not."

"And I need more fire than it takes to make love in bed, in the dark," she lilted. After a beat, she said, "What about you, mister?"

"Me? I like the fire."

She smiled. "Obviously. But I told you my origin story. Now tell me yours."

He groaned. "Clearly, I would if I could – some force would make me. But I can't, because I don't remember it."

"Don't remember?"

"It was over eight centuries ago! And it was a ceremonial act – I didn't know her name, even at the time. All I can recall is, we did not make eye-contact, and we were observed by eight priests."

"Oh, dear," she said. "I'm sorry to hear that. All right then. Tell me your origin story… in this body. I trust you remember that one."

"Yes, I remember that one."