First Year
"I don't see why you always think you're right, Albus," Minerva McGonagall observed, as they stood in his study watching the fleet of first-years approach Hogwarts in their boats.
"Allow me the liberty, Minerva," Albus Dumbledore replied in return, giving her a little bow with a twinkle in his eyes, "of claiming that having a –ah!- somewhat greater intelligence than the common man, my guesses nearly always turn out right."
"I suppose so," McGonagall sighed. "Still, I must warn you that any more matchmaking attempts and Lucius Malfoy, for one, will attempt to remove you as Headmaster."
"I hardly think that requires any action on my part," Dumbledore remarked. "He's always been rather eager to present arguments against me. There are some in this world who do not appreciate a love for Muggles as much as I do."
"And still you attempt this!" McGonagall's nostrils flared, as they always did when presented with arguments that did not hold water. As a woman who held logic and preciseness above everything else, she did not care very much about matchmaking.
"And still I attempt this, yes," Dumbledore nodded. "Something tells me that Miss Granger and the young Mr. Malfoy will be rather compatible."
"Do you want to bet on it?" The side of her mouth twitched. Really, Dumbledore could be ridiculous at times. Betting on first-years! Matchmaking a Pureblood with Death Eater parents and a Muggle-born!
"I would love to," Dumbledore said, turning to her. "The winnings?"
"If I win, you will never again send me cat food for Christmas," McGonagall replied archly. The imprudence!
"Of course."
"And you?"
"How about sherbet lemons?" The idea of Minerva McGonagall heading to a Muggle convenience store and fiddling with Muggle money was rather amusing. Dumbledore chuckled.