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Professor McGonagall was pacing in her office. “Really, Albus,” she huffed, irritated, “this is the first Christmas after the end of the war. How can you be so calm? I want this to be perfect."
“Minerva,” Dumbledore’s portrait said with a warm smile, “you worry too much, my dear.”
“Albus, the students hate each other. There is not one day without a fight and someone ending up in the hospital wing,” Minerva snapped, her patience at its end.
“Albus is correct,” Severus Snape’s portrait drawled, “Christmas is overrated.”
“Severus, my boy,” Dumbledore admonished him mildly, glancing over his half-moon spectacles at the portrait opposite, “you know very well that this was not what I meant.”
Minerva pressed her lips together, visibly annoyed by their lack of help. “The war has divided the school even more, and it is time that the children see the truth,” she muttered, resuming her pacing that she had stopped momentarily. “They are all children, they are not responsible for the actions of their parents, nor does the house define their character. I wish they could see that they are all equal, just normal children with their own dreams and problems.”
Several portraits muttered, and she was sure she heard Snape snorting. Annoyed, she glared at his portrait. “You wanted to say something, Severus?” Minerva asked curtly.
“Must I remind you,” Snape mocked, “that Slytherin was always the house of dark wizards? What do you want to do, a friendly get-together, baking Christmas cookies and singing Christmas songs?”
But before Minerva could even come up with a retort to Snape’s sarcastic remark, Dumbledore beamed. "Fantastic idea, Severus,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Tomorrow is the last weekend before the students leave for their holidays, and there is enough time for a cheerful afternoon full of sweets and spiced tea.” And without another word, he turned and left his frame to tell the exciting news to his fellow portraits. The last thing Minerva heard was him humming, “Baking Christmas cookies. Marvellous, simply marvellous.”
Minerva groaned under her breath, fully aware that Snape had made a joke. Her mood grew even darker when she noticed the smirk on the man’s face. “Tell me,” she challenged, stepping closer to his painting, “that you do not think it will end in a complete disaster.”
“You are the headmistress of Hogwarts,” Snape said, and something in his tone made her uneasy. “You have wished that the students see the truth that no one is born evil, that they are equal regardless of their family and house.”
“And?” Minerva asked, puzzled.
“The school helps its headmasters and headmistresses,” he replied. After that, he sat down in his armchair with a book on his lap, refusing to continue the conversation.
The same evening, Minerva announced to the whole school that they would be baking Christmas cookies together the following day.
The students instantly complained to their friends, no one being happy about spending their last Saturday afternoon baking. Minerva noticed that even the other professors seemed displeased, although they hid their frustration better than the students.
Saturday morning proved stressful. Minerva had to coordinate with the house-elves, persuade them to send only the ingredients to the Great Hall and not the baked cookies, make sure the students could find everything they needed, including ingredients for baking and decorating, several large ovens, books of Muggle and magical recipes for Christmas cookies, gingerbread, rich fruit cakes, mince pies, and, her favourite, festive apple cake.
It was early afternoon when finally everything was ready. During the morning, it had started to snow, and the large snowflakes falling from the enchanted ceiling mingled with the hundreds of floating candles that turned the room warm and bright. The snow melted before it reached the tables, but the tops of the huge, beautifully decorated twelve Christmas trees were quickly covered with a sparkling white layer of soft snow.
Minerva watched the students arrive. She had felt conflicted, unable to see how this could go well, and yet baking Christmas cookies brought a warm feeling in her chest, reminding her of her childhood when she had baked with her mother and sister.
But her hopes ended quickly. Students sat with crossed arms, glaring at the table, and pouted. “What’s with all the pink sprinkles? So uncool.” She heard students grumbling, and with every new student entering the hall, the mood grew darker. When she heard someone growling, “That’s the job of house-elves,” she knew it was time to step in.
She reminded everyone to enjoy the afternoon, be creative, and share the magical and Muggle cookies.
It took less than half an hour to set the disaster in motion. Minerva had been walking along the tables when a group of Slytherins and Ravenclaws yelled at each other.
“What is the matter of this disturbance?” she asked sternly, waiting for a response, but neither of them was willing to answer. A moment later, everybody shouted at the same time. Minerva never learned what had started the fight, because a loud crash and more screaming drowned out the first fight. A sixth- and fifth-year Gryffindor were covered in flour and cacao, and a third-year Hufflepuff student was hanging on the arm of the fifth-year Gryffindor.
Minerva inhaled sharply, assuming the young girl was defending her older brother. But before she could reach them, spells began to fly. This was the point beyond reasoning. It took the professors nearly twenty minutes to separate the fighting students. They were furious, covered with sprinkles, flour, and cinnamon, and the Great Hall was wrecked. Even the Christmas trees hadn’t escaped the students’ wrath.
After house points were deducted, detentions were given, and the students were sent to their dorms, Minerva excused herself and went to her office.
The moment she entered the headmistress’s office, several portraits sniggered behind their hands. But one glare, and the room went silent. She sank into her chair behind the large desk, closing her eyes and taking a few deep breaths.
“Minerva, what happened?” Dumbledore asked, a trace of amusement in his eyes.
Minerva, however, shook her head, and looked at Snape’s portrait instead. “Severus,” she sighed. “I have always told you that you are too serious, that you must learn to joke.” Leaning forward, she added dryly, “I take that back. Never try to be funny again.”
“I will try to curb my humour, headmistress,” Snape drawled, the corners of his mouth turning upwards. “You might want to enlighten us about what happened, so that the next Christmas baking will be a success.”
“Next, Christmas baking?” Minerva scoffed. “There won’t be a next – ever.” Snape, in the meantime, smirked at someone behind her back. Minerva turned and swore under her breath. She should have known that when Albus Dumbledore found a liking for anything, not even ten hippogriffs, hunted by a fire-breathing dragon, could possibly stop him.
At one point, Minerva agreed to revisit the topic next year to stop Dumbledore from telling her about the merits of such an event. She was exhausted, but sleep eluded her for hours. When she finally fell asleep, the memory of a recent conversation followed her into her dreams: You wished that the students would see the truth that they are equal… The school helps…
The next morning, Minerva stepped into her office, ready to forget the previous day and begin, hopefully, a better one.
“Good morning, Minerva,” Dumbledore greeted her cheerfully. She inclined her head and was already halfway through the office door, when Dumbledore’s next words froze her on the spot. “Are you ready for an afternoon full of joy and Christmas baking? I heard there will be snow later, perfect to set the right atmosphere.”
As soon as the shock had settled, Minerva whirled around, ready to tell the old man exactly what she thought about his remark. But the words got stuck in her throat, as she saw the genuine excitement in Dumbledore’s eyes.
“Albus,” Minerva said tensely, “we discussed this last night. There won’t be any more baking this year.” Or next year, she added under her breath.
“Are you feeling alright, my dear?” Dumbledore asked, leaning forward as much as the canvas would allow, a hint of concern on his face.
Minerva closed the door and stepped back into her office. “Albus, yesterday was a disaster. The students wrecked the Great Hall.”
“You seem to be confused,” Albus said lightly, “clearly the excitement has found its way into your dreams.”
“I didn’t dream anything,” Minerva snapped, certain that nobody could have had such vivid dreams and feel the exhaustion in their bones. Coming to a quick decision, she went to the window. “And,” she added triumphantly, and opened it, “if you look out of the window, you will see the snow from yesterday.” But at the end of her sentence, her voice cracked. There was not a single snowflake on the grounds of Hogwarts.
With more force than necessary, she closed the window and began pacing in her office. “Albus, I swear I did not dream yesterday’s events; today is Sunday.”
Snape had observed them quietly, clearly annoyed by the commotion that had interrupted his sleep. But now, his interest was piqued. “How often has this happened?” he interrupted Minerva’s rambling, studying her through narrowed eyes.
“How often did– What do you mean? How often has this happened?” Minerva asked suspiciously, their conversation from two nights ago still vividly in her mind. “Why do you want to know?”
“No reason,” Snape replied, and, again, Minerva felt she was missing something, something she failed to grasp.
So she tried the only thing that ever kept Snape talking, providing him with a puzzle. “Once,” she said in a challenging tone, but the former Potions Master just hummed thoughtfully and went back to sleep in his painted green armchair.
And so Minerva left her office, to prepare the Great Hall for the Christmas baking everyone expected to happen. This time, she also added soft music and spiced tea with cinnamon and nutmeg for the students to enjoy.
That afternoon, the headmistress stood in front of students and professors, determined to prevent the disaster of the, for her, previous day. She knew what would happen, so it should be child’s play to survive the day without tears, injured pride, and a wrecked Great Hall.
Four hours later, she paced in her office, visibly annoyed. She had made clear from the beginning that she expected everyone to behave and not cause any commotion. Some students had even started halfheartedly skimming through the recipes or eating the cookie decorations.
“What happened, Minerva?” Albus asked, “I haven’t seen you so unsettled in ages.” Only a second later he added thoughtfully, “Or maybe I have, and I have forgotten about it.”
The headmistress glared at Dumbledore’s portrait, her flour-stained robe speaking for itself. But the moment Snape snorted, she fixed her glare on her predecessor. “It was your idea, Severus,” she accused him, “you started this. Now, you will help me to get out of this mess.”
“I am flattered,” Snape smirked, “but even I can’t oppose the castle’s magic. Whatever you started, you must finish it.”
The advice was anything but helpful and so the time loop continued. Every Saturday morning she prepared the Great Hall, laid down rules and promised detention to prevent an escalation of the students' animosity. But every single time it ended in a disaster: someone felt insulted, someone had tampered with the dough or burned the cookies, and once Hermione started a mass duel by fighting for the house-elves.
Minerva tried, but nothing seemed to work. As much as she cared for her students, some days she couldn’t take it any longer. But whether cancelling the baking or simply disappearing to Hogsmeade, in the evening the Great Hall was still wrecked. On some days she even lost track of how the fight had begun, but it always escalated in the same way.
Last night, she had another long talk with Dumbledore’s portrait, while Snape couldn’t resist the occasional sarcastic remark. They agreed that the only way to end the time loop was to show the students the truth, helping them to see that they were not enemies and could even be friends if they looked beyond the prejudice that had grown among them.
Saturday morning Minerva prepared the Great Hall, and then waited for the students to arrive. The hall looked mesmerising, she had outdone herself. Minerva’s annoyance and frustration had long since given way to a bone-deep exhaustion. She was at her wits’ end; all her talking had fallen on deaf ears.
“Professor?” Hermione Granger carefully asked, startling Minerva out of her deep thoughts. “Are you–? I mean, yesterday you seemed to like the idea of Christmas baking, but today it doesn’t appear as if you are.”
Minerva gave her a faint smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She let her gaze wander through the hall, and saw only a handful of students who had already arrived. “There was a time,” she said quietly, “when I loved baking for Christmas.”
Hermione sat on the table opposite and tilted her head, her gaze distant. “When I was little," the young Gryffindor said, "I would spend days with my mum and dad in the kitchen, baking far too many things.” After a moment she continued enthusiastically, “We made gingerbread, almond biscuits, coconut macaroons, and cinnamon stars.” Then, shaking her head fondly at a memory, she added, “My favourite was mince pies, but mum and dad don’t like them, so there weren’t as many made as the rest.”
“I must say, you have excellent taste. There is hardly anything better than mince pies,” Minerva said, pleasantly surprised at the turn of events. This conversation had not once happened before.
She was briefly distracted as Amber, a seventh-year Slytherin, dropped onto the bench close to the head table. Amber was one of the students who had set the Christmas trees on fire a few iterations ago. For now, however, she was glaring at the table with her arms crossed in front of her chest.
“Professor?” Hermione asked, and from her frown, Minerva assumed she had been trying to get her attention for a while. “Erm, I was asking what your favourite Christmas sweet is.”
“Festive apple cake with an extra spoonful of cinnamon,” Minerva replied without needing to think. “We baked it every year, and I got a small pot of extra cinnamon. I can still remember the recipe by heart.”
“That is nice, Professor,” Hermione hummed. “I have forgotten how to bake mince pies. Maybe I can find the recipe here,” she added, indicating the many baking books and scrolls on the tables.
“You don’t know how to make mince pies?” Amber scoffed, finally stopping her glaring at the table.
Minerva tensed. Starting a fight before the Christmas baking had started was a record.
Hermione shrugged, admitting, “Not really. My family never liked them, and I was fine with the rest.”
“But you like mince pies?” Amber asked skeptically.
“They are the best. What about you?”
“Definitely the best,” Amber agreed, her eyes shining with excitement. A moment later she tapped the seat next to her and invited Hermione to join. “I'll show you how I make them.” Both students immediately started to prepare the filling, soon deep in discussion about which fillings were the best.
More and more students arrived, clearly annoyed by being forced to bake cookies and Christmas cakes. Normally, Minerva would have given a speech, told them about being blinded by the lies they had been told, and warned them to behave and not cause any problems. But today, she didn’t.
Soon others followed the example of Hermione and Amber, baking their favourite cookies or trying new ones. Minerva had started to walk between the tables, offering help or simply listening to the conversation of the children who had suddenly discovered that baking and decorating Christmas cookies could be fun.
But not all students joined. Many sat slumped in their seats, fidgeting and uncertain about what to do. Maybe, Minerva thought, they simply didn’t know what to do. Maybe they had never had the opportunity to experience this little joy.
She took a step towards a group of first-year Ravenclaws who looked utterly lost, but Ginny and Luna were faster. “Hey, don’t you like Christmas cookies? If you make them yourself, you can add as much chocolate and sprinkles as you want,” Ginny said with a warm smile, and sat next to Luna, who was already looking through the recipes.
“Mmmh,” Luna agreed, “and because we can use magic, we can let the gingerbread men sing and dance.”
"Mother always taught me, 'Never eat singing food,'" one of the Ravenclaws said seriously, nearly making Minerva laugh.
“Of course, you can’t eat singing gingerbread men!” Luna replied, shocked that someone would suggest such a thing. “But the spell will only last ten minutes. Afterwards, they are just cookies.”
Minerva chuckled quietly and left the group of excited children under the care of Luna and Ginny.
It didn’t take long, and the hall was filled with laughter and the delicious aroma of warm Christmas cake, spices, and chocolate. Someone had put apples filled with honey, nuts, and cinnamon in the oven, and a few students were impatiently waiting for them to be ready.
Here and there, students got a little carried away, but it never escalated like in the many days before. Minerva couldn’t remember the last time she wasn’t nervous and stressed, and instead felt calm and happy. The afternoon was nearly over, most people chatting and drinking spiced tea or apple juice with cinnamon.
As she passed two Gryffindor students, she heard one of them hiss, "You don't know what you're talking about."
Minerva’s stomach turned, and with only a few brisk steps she reached the two boys. “Is there any problem?” she asked tensely, her watchful eyes assessing the situation.
“No, professor,” both said in unison. But Minerva had dealt with mischievous children for years, had survived the Weasley twins; she knew when something was afoot. After she sternly looked at them, letting the silence drag on, one begrudgingly admitted, “We were only decorating.”
“Decorating?” Minerva repeated, fixing her glare at the student. “Then why, Mr Ashton,” she asked firmly, “did you claim that Mr Lowe had no idea what he was talking about?”
“Because he said he can mix–” Mr Ashton flinched and stopped talking. He glared at his friend, who had clearly kicked him under the table.
“Mix?” Minerva said slowly, and instantly sorted through the bags of sprinkles, chocolate droplets, glitter, and a box of very familiar, but officially banned, products everybody carried around these days.
“You wanted to mix Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes’ products?” she asked sharply, looking at the different packages with a frown. Some packages made you sing ‘Rudolf the Red-Rosed Reindeer,’ whenever you open your mouth; others turned your hair green or made you grow antlers. There were even those that created a snowing cloud above your head, and made you laugh like Santa Claus.
Several students were watching the exchange. Minerva was torn, uncertain if she should allow them to use Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes’ products, or be strict and confiscate them. Coming to a quick decision, she slowly put the box back on the table. “Mr Lowe, Mr Ashton was correct in his statement: you had no idea what you were talking about.” Several of the students murmured in disappointment, and Lucas and Aaron averted their eyes, discouraged. “Therefore,” Minerva continued, a small smile on her lips, “I suggest you use them sparsely, one product per cookie.”
Both boys grinned and immediately got to work, adding the joke products to their cookies. Shaking her head in amusement, she joined Pomona Sprout for spiked, spiced tea, as both witches watched the spectacle.
“I think,” Pomona hummed contently, sipping her tea, “I haven’t seen the students so happy for a long time.”
“You have no idea,” Minerva chuckled wryly and added some more whiskey to her tea. When she saw a group of students from all four houses approaching, she handed her cup to Pomona, and went to meet them.
“Professor,” Hermione began, glancing at the others who nodded encouragingly, “we wanted to thank you.”
“Thank me?”
“Yes, for the Christmas baking. We thought it was a punishment for all the problems we caused this year, but we all enjoyed it and, erm, we baked you a festive apple cake,” Hermione said, and Amber handed her her favourite cake.
“We even remembered to put extra cinnamon in it, but just in case–” Amber explained and also gave her a small glass with cinnamon.
“I thank you for that thoughtful present,” Minerva said, touched, “I will certainly enjoy it,” her eyes growing moist.
Soon after, the students left the Great Hall, walking with a spring in their step. Some of them wore antlers or sang Christmas songs, while eating their cookies. All the time, the snow continued falling onto the large Christmas trees that had witnessed the most perfect Christmas at Hogwarts in years.
That night, Minerva went to sleep, feeling happy and sad at the same time. This day had been perfect. The students had finally begun seeing the truth, and yet, tomorrow all would be forgotten.
The next morning, Dumbledore greeted her cheerfully, “Good morning, Minerva.”
She inclined her head and sighed heavily. “Good morning, Albus.” With a glance at the sleeping portrait of Snape, she added quietly, “You might want to lower your voice. You don’t want Severus to wake up, do you?”
The man in question, meanwhile, kept sleeping, or, as Minerva had learned, pretended to sleep. Dumbledore chuckled, as he did so often, and Minerva knew his next words by heart. ‘Are you ready for an afternoon full of joy and Christmas baking? I heard there will be snow later, perfect to set the right atmosphere.’
But the words never came. Instead, Minerva spotted her favourite apple cake on her desk. “What is that?” she asked, shocked, taking a closer look. But it was indeed the same cake the students had given her the night before, including the missing piece she had eaten before she went to bed.
“My dear Minerva, are you feeling alright?” Dumbledore asked, and even Snape had stopped pretending to sleep and watched her every reaction. “You wouldn’t stop talking about the cake,” Dumbledore chuckled, “or all the fun the students had.”
“But today is Saturday,” Minerva said, unsure. Needing another confirmation, she quickly looked out of the window. Outside, a thick layer of soft, white snow covered the ground, glittering in the early morning sun.
“You must be confused,” Albus said, unaware of the inner tumult within his former Deputy Headmistress. “We must not linger in the past. As much as you liked yesterday, you need to move on.”
“Of course, Albus, of course,” Minerva muttered. Still in shock that the time loop was broken.
Sunday morning had finally arrived.
While pondering recent events and enjoying her apple cake, she noticed the piercing, curious glances of Snape. But there were just some things, Minerva thought, that she had the right to keep for herself. Apple cake with cinnamon and some secrets were definitely one of them.
Though maybe, one day, she would share how she had created the perfect day, celebrating the spirit of Christmas with sweets, spiced drinks, and laughter.
Until then, however, she would leave Severus hanging, relishing his struggle between wanting to know the truth and keeping his stoic appearance.
Leaning back, Minerva felt the gentle magic of the castle wash over her. Hogwarts was indeed a magical place.