In Albus's experience, the proportion seemed to be nine foully flavoured beans to every one was that was pleasant. Warily, he watched as Gellert's face failed to pucker with disgust, which said something, he supposed. Albus's brow lifted, a bit unimpressed, because it was sheer luck on Gellert's part.
Precisely what Gellert was doing was a bit of a mystery, though Albus supposed that carefully wading through the unseemly possibilities was as good a way as any to go about attempting to eat them. After a moment's consideration, he supposed it was safe to leave Gellert to the task at the foot of his bed and he returned to the book in his hands.
The question, however, drew Albus's sharply curious eyes. It seemed entirely too unlikely that even Gellert could have found two separate consumable beans in one bag.
"I enjoy them," he said, eying the bright yellow bean and trying to avoid associations with lemon drops. Hoping an Every Favoured Bean would actually taste like candy seemed to be reaching for the stars.