A/N: This is just a silly Christmas one-shot. Don't take it too seriously :)

Sarah

Minerva McGonagall sighed as she tried to pass the masses of students in the cold corridors of Hogwarts; all the older students were over-excited about the Yule Ball, and the younger ones were elated by the prospect of going home to their families for Christmas tomorrow – it was the last day of term. The idea of having very nearly all the fourth- to seventh-years in the castle of Christmas had its pros and cons. She liked to see the place in good spirits, but she often found the older students had a tendency to be more of a nuisance than the first- and second-years.

Take the Weasley twins, for example. Though they were in their sixth year, they were still the most trouble she had experienced since she had been subjected to the task of teaching James Potter and Sirius Black. Harry Potter, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger were not much better at times, either. Trouble seemed to stick to them like socks on Dobby.

Minerva gave up on pushing past the throng of youngsters; she was in no great rush, anyway.

"...think we she should get her something," she heard the bossy voice of Hermione Granger dictate to her friends, Harry and Ron. "It's not like she's unpleasant. We all look up to her, and she looks after us."

"But she's scary!" Ron complained loudly. "I'm telling you, Hermione, it's not worth the awkwardness." Unsurprisingly, Harry seemed to be keeping out of the arguing, as he usually did when Ron and Hermione started. "And anyway, what are we meant to give her? A book? You can guarantee she owns nearly every book known to man! She's as bad as you."

Minerva smiled, wondering who they were talking about. Anybody as fond of books as Hermione Granger was someone she liked the sound of. Hermione, after all, was a brilliant young witch, and quite a bit of it was down to her relentless study of any book she could lay her hands on – and not to mention her incredibly driven and logical mind.

For the first time in the conversation, Harry spoke. "Hermione's right, Ron," he said firmly. "We owe her at least a Christmas present."

"I guess she does look after us," Ron grudgingly agreed. "But she's too much like Mum! Drives me mad!"

Minerva heard Harry's low chuckle while Hermione spoke. "I think it's kind of in her bones," the girl explained. "Some women are just like that," she added wisely. "It's a special gift."

"What, you mean she's got special powers or something?" Ron snorted derisively.

"Of course not. Not in the way you're thinking. It happens with Muggle women too; some of them are just mothers by design."

"She's not got kids!" protested the youngest Weasley boy. Now Minerva really did want to know about whom they were arguing as they dawdled in the crowd to the Great Hall for lunch.

Again, Harry spoke, again defending Hermione's reasoning. "She doesn't have to have children of her own to be a mothering person. I mean, look at your Mum, Ron," he explained. "I'm not her child, and neither is Hermione, but she still treats us like we are. It's in her nature. And they both do it, just in different ways. They both have our best interests in mind whenever they do anything."

Ron grunted, giving Minerva the feeling that he felt very much outnumbered. "So what will we get her then?" he impatiently demanded, hoisting his bag back into place upon his shoulder. Minerva always had been amused by Ron's sometimes surly nature, especially when he had it in him to be as wild as Fred and George were.

"Well," Hermione began, "I was thinking that we could make something."

"Like at primary school," Harry added, sounding like he saw the genius in her plan. Apparently, then, Muggle primary schools had changed since Minerva attended one. That was hardly surprising, though.

"Exactly!" exclaimed Hermione, sounding very excited. "Without magic, so it's actually an effort."

"Is there any way we could use a cooker? Even an old stove or something?" Harry asked.

"Break into the kitchens?" Ron suggested feebly.

Minerva didn't want to hear any more. Though she admired their good intentions, she didn't want to hear how they were going to get access to cooking facilities. Rather than stay and be obliged to stop them, she said loudly, "Excuse me, Miss Granger!" and pushed ahead of them. This way, she could plead ignorance if they accidentally burned the castle down. She only hoped that Harry and Hermione had experience of cooking without magic, because Minerva knew for a fact that Ron Weasley – and probably all of his siblings – had never had to do anything beyond peeling vegetables or making toast.

Harry walked down the corridor between Ron and Hermione; though they were being polite to one another, he did not like the arguing between them at the moment. He could see it from both sides, but in the end, did it really matter? Weren't there bigger things in life to worry about?

As for this idea, he had wished they had never attempted it once they had started. Hermione had managed to talk the house-elves into letting them borrow a stove under their supervision, but it soon became apparent that Ron ought to have a ten-foot exclusion zone around him while he was cooking. He had caused a minor explosion of spiced water and steam, and then had tried to pick up a hot baking tray with his bare hands, having already burned himself with hot sugar and condensed milk.

While Harry had been slightly astonished but quite amused by Ron's lack of culinary skills, Hermione had panicked and become impatient with Ron. Frankly, Harry was quite glad it was all over now.

They were now carrying a festively decorated tin each; despite the torment he had suffered putting it together, he was now quite proud of what they had managed to produce, particularly since none of them had produced anything of that calibre on their own before. What made it worthwhile, though, was the knowledge that their efforts would be appreciated – provided they didn't let slip they had used the kitchens, even if the house-elves had been on hand to stop any major disasters. It hadn't helped, however, that they were cooking things that were almost foreign to them, consulting an old recipe book Hermione had borrowed from the library as they went along.

"What if she goes mental?" worried Ron aloud; the same thought had crossed Harry's mind, but he hadn't voiced it because, deep down, he knew it wouldn't happen.

"She won't," Hermione said wisely. "Although, I wouldn't tell her that we were messing around in the kitchens, if I were you," she added.

Harry consulted his map as they reached the door and told them, "She's in her office." They crossed the classroom to her office and knocked, and Harry, for some reason, felt slightly nervous.

Ron, obviously feeling the same way, hissed, "We could just leave it here and-"

But he didn't get time to finish his sentence, for the door had opened. There stood Professor McGonagall, looking slightly confused. "Can I help you?" she asked, as though she was expecting an answer that involved the usual trouble she dealt with when she was confronted by the three of them at once.

"We wanted to give you this before breakfast," Hermione explained brightly, nudging Harry with her elbow, reminding him to open his tin. She and Ron did the same, and it seemed, for the first time, they had rendered McGonagall speechless. The sweet smell of shortbread, clootie dumpling and tablet filled the air, layering it with the scents of cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger and fruit, as well as the sugary fumes from the tablet.

When McGonagall opened her mouth, she said, "Thank you. You shouldn't have, but thank you." It was the warmest she had ever sounded to Harry, and the rare smile on her stern face told him she meant what she was saying. "The last time I had clootie dumpling, I was your age."

Ron piped up, "I'd never even heard of it before we made it. Who wraps their pudding in a cloth and dumps it in a pot to boil, anyway? It's mental."

"It's tradition," McGonagall told him with a small smile. She ushered them into the classroom to place the tins on her desk, and Harry felt her gaze burning through them. "What on Earth possessed you to go to this trouble?" she asked them.

Harry and Ron shrugged, typically unable to answer a question of that sort; Hermione had to answer for them. "We just felt like you should have a gift from us at Christmas." They looked back at the tins. Hermione's was filled with pieces of shortbread in the shapes of stars and Christmas trees. The second – Harry's – contained a round, dense slow-cooked fruit pudding that Hermione reliably informed them was called a clootie dumpling. Ron's carried tablet, which they had managed to cut into fairly neat squares. "We thought it might make you happy, since they're things you probably grew up eating."

If Harry didn't know her better, he would have sworn there was a tear or two in McGonagall's eye when she replied, "Well, thank you very much, the three of you. It's most kind." She added with a strict sort of look at them, "I will not ask how you gained access to the cooking facilities. Some things, I am better off not knowing."

Harry and Ron laughed, albeit with nerves and relief, and even Hermione let out a little chuckle. McGonagall's smile lingered; Harry had a sense of accomplishment seeing her genuinely touched and happy.

"You'd best be getting off to breakfast," she told them. "I was heading down myself when you arrived." They nodded, and were surprised when she touched each of their arms fondly as they passed her. "Thank you, and Merry Christmas!" she called after them as they left.

"Merry Christmas, Professor!" she shouted back in unison, not turning around to do so.

Harry put his arms out around Ron and Hermione's shoulders, pleased by how well that went.

McGonagall sat down at her desk and picked up a star-shaped piece of shortbread. It was good. She could scarcely believe the effort those three had gone to in order to give her a Christmas gift. She didn't understand why.

It was as she took her second bite that she remembered their conversation in the corridor a couple of days before, and how she had wondered who they had been talking about. It dawned on her suddenly that they had been referring to her. They had been talking about her when they had spoken of the terrifying but motherly woman they looked up to. It was a strange feeling that didn't lessen with each rare occasion – she didn't think she would ever get used to random acts of kindness towards her when they came from her students, nor would she ever get used to being thought of as a mother-figure as well as an authority-figure.

A smile crept to her face once more, and a tear fell down her cheek as she replaced the lids to each of the tins before making her way down to the Great Hall for breakfast. Sometimes her students were so unpredictable.

I hope you enjoyed that. Please feel free to review and tell me your thoughts!

Merry Christmas!

Sarah x