A/N: I am slightly proud/ashamed to admit, this is the first non-Mary-Sue HP fic I have ever written. (Granted, my last Harry Potter fic was circa 2004.) It's going to be a series of one-shots focusing on the kids who were stuck at Hogwarts all year while the trio…camped. And found Horcruxes! Of course!

Anyway, they're going to be random, and the only feasible order they'll be in is what order they pop into my head. Some'll focus on characters we know and love, like dearest Neville, and others will focus on characters we kind of know and will soon grow to love. (I just love inventing back stories too much, haha.) Enjoy!

(fill in witty "I don't own Harry Potter" disclaimer here)

(also, story title is a song by dashboard confessional)

I. Still Recruting!

"The first reported attempt to burn a witch at the stake took place in 1397, in Forkshire, England." Carrow's voice, nasally and bitter, echoed slightly amongst the lofty ceiling. The Muggle Studies classroom – Muggle propaganda, more like – was awfully plain by Hogwarts standards. Carrow's desk was in the front, with a streaky chalkboard behind it, covered in a large, rather detailed drawing of a muggle hanging from a 17th century gallows. The bookshelves that lined the walls were empty, having been dumped of all of their copies of The Internet Made Simple and Why Boats Make Sense to Some months earlier. The back wall was also suspiciously bare – rumor went that Carrow had blasted off the paintings ten minutes into her tenure as Muggle Studies professor. They'd been the unmoving type that Muggles seemed so fond of – like the Manchester United poster that remained plastered up in the Gryffindor 7th year boy's dormitory. Dean had left it there at the end of last term; Seamus and Neville had let it remain next to his bed, out of a melancholy respect. They hadn't heard from Dean in months.

"The witch burnings continued throughout the next three centuries!" Carrow screeched. Neville was just barely following along; he'd spent the past forty minutes of class doodling 'Dumbledore's Army' on his parchment. "Those of pure magical descent were forced into hiding! Hunted down! Chased from their homes, ripped away from their families - !"

A lazy hand grasped for air towards the back of the room. Carrow shut her eyes briefly, took a deep breath, and asked tightly, "What, you filthy half-breed?"

Anthony Goldstein's father was the well-known and well-respected Head of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, who had quit the day You-Know-Who took control of the Ministry; he'd somehow managed to Stun four Death Eaters on his way out. His mother was a doctor of some sort. His voice dripping with tedium, he asked, "So…what? Magical people could just perform a spell to save themselves…? We are, y'know, magical, after all…"

Shocked whispers and giggles emerged from the crowd; Carrow clenched her jaw and clutched her wand. Gaze aflame, she strode past the rows of gleefully terrified students and whacked Anthony sharply. He winced slightly, but seemed more bored with the situation than anything else.

"Any more lip from any of you, you'll get sent straight to detention with my brother. You all know what that means, eh?" Carrow grinned gleefully and twirled her wand menacingly at students as she passed them. "The Cruciatus curse on the lot of you! Daresay, you bloody blood traitors could use it…"

She reached her desk and resumed the lecture. Neville didn't even bother to tune back in. He chewed on his quill and surveyed the room. The class had, moments earlier, been simply giddy; high on Goldstein's smart remark – even now, there was a buzz, an energy that hadn't been there before. Anthony's rebellion had been small, granted – but now it would be that much easier for the 7th years to get through another day in this bastardized version of Hogwarts.

It's like Harry, Neville thought with a start as he scribbled in his exclamation point. Fifth year, back before anyone had believed You-Know-Who was back – Harry had stood up to Umbridge when she had tried to get them to believe that theory was all one needed to get through life. Harry had known better – Harry had spoken up.

Lately, Neville had found himself day-dreaming about the days of Dumbledore's Army – locked in the Room of Requirement with the people he could at least kind of sort of call friends, hurling spells at one another and cheering whenever you got a particularly nasty one right – they hadn't been doing much, really, in the grander scheme of saving the world and defeating You-Know-Who. But it had been a start. They'd been doing all they could manage, at the time – learning how to defend themselves against the growing peril engulfing them. They'd been teetering over the edge of a movement, they had – and hadn't even realized it.

Dumbledore's Army! Neville stared at his mindless scribble for a moment, giving the tiny lumos! in his brain time to develop properly. Holding back a smirk, he added two more words to the scrap of parchment: still recruiting!

"…Muggles resorted to awful measures in torturing the wizards. They would mindlessly hunt them down; snap their wands in half if they got the chance. Imagine that, class – the indignity! The humiliation!"

Neville's hand shot up into the air before he could smother the thought. He didn't even wait for Carrow to call on him; simply blurted it out: "So, Professor, I was just wondering… All this talk of muggles – how much Muggle blood do you reckon you and the other Professor Carrow have got in you?"

Carrow gasped and narrowed her eyes. Lips curled in a snarl, her wand arm shot up, pointing directly at Neville. He grinned, fully aware of what was coming.

"CRUCIO!"

And that was the last thing Neville recalled about that particular Muggle Studies class.