Death, Hope and Unlucky Ghost

The aroma of black tea and biscuits filled the headmaster's office. Under Fawkes' watchful eye, Dumbledore explained to Anthony that the magic of creating bodies still fell under the category of Dark magic, and a rather obscure branch at that. He provided Anthony with a few keywords and cautioned him to tread carefully.

"I want to believe you, Anthony. But please don't stray too far down that deep and alluring path..." Dumbledore sighed. "As far as I know, like death, it's a road difficult to turn back from. The passion for life and the fear of death, sometimes I find it hard to distinguish between them... Perhaps when you reach the end, you'll discover they are merely adjacent paths in the woods, both leading to the same lake."

"It's not impossible," Anthony replied, thinking of the silent black river that always flowed in his dreams. "I wonder what that end is like. I haven't seen it yet."

Dumbledore inquired, "Forgive my presumption, Anthony. This is merely a sudden curiosity, and you needn't answer at all... What is death like?"

Anthony fell silent.

On the grand cabinet, Fawkes paused his preening and turned to look at him. Outside the window, ice and snow blanketed the gray mountains, seemingly eternal. An owl flew hurriedly in the distance, carrying a letter from some unknown sender back home.

A couple strolled hand in hand by the Black Lake, their faces, ears, and noses flushed by the cold wind. Jubilant students celebrated Gryffindor's victory, jumping on the still-damp ground. Filch stood guard outside a door, eyeing everyone's shoes with malice, oblivious to Peeves dangling a boot over his head.

"Do you truly want to hear me speak of death, Professor?" the resurrected necromancer asked.

Even the silver instruments in the office, which usually hummed softly, fell silent. The smoke they emitted hung hesitantly in the air. Time seemed to distort, for death was something that existed beyond time—

"No," Dumbledore said, "No, I apologize."

"It's not that I'm unwilling to speak of it," Anthony clarified. "I just wanted to be sure you truly wanted to hear it."

Dumbledore removed his glasses from his crooked nose and carefully cleaned them. He spoke firmly, "No. Don't open presents before Christmas, don't blow out candles before birthdays. You're right, Anthony. Thank you."

"It's nothing. People are curious," Anthony said.

He himself had been curious... before he died. In truth, Dumbledore's ability to resist the temptation so quickly and decisively had exceeded his expectations.

Dumbledore smiled. "Then let me keep that curiosity until the answer comes to me. I hope it's a satisfactory one."

"I can't guarantee that," Anthony chuckled. "What I can tell you is that death is not the end of everything."

Dumbledore said, "That's enough, Anthony, that's enough." His voice trembled slightly, and his blue eyes were unusually bright. "It fills me with... hope."

...

Anthony stood in the hallway, bewildered, holding a bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans. Like a kind grandfather entertaining a child, Dumbledore had made a long list of snacks for him, attempting to fill his pockets. In the end, he had inexplicably insisted Anthony take the bag of "Every Flavor Beans," which Dumbledore claimed were his "least favorite."

"I'm always so unlucky," Dumbledore had said helplessly. "I never get the flavor I want. I've been meaning to speak to the manufacturer. They're so unkind to those who are easily tricked by fate."

Anthony had been skeptical until he had a mint-flavored bean in his mouth and watched Dumbledore eat a soap-flavored one. They had initially agreed that the pink, fragrant bean was strawberry.

Dean Thomas from Gryffindor spotted Anthony and greeted him, "Professor Anthony! Did you go to the match today?"

Ever since Anthony had interrupted the Gryffindor-Slytherin match with flying spells and a giant sheet, rumors had swirled that Madam Hooch would challenge him to a wizard's duel or ban him from the Quidditch pitch.

"Indeed, I did. Potter won spectacularly," Anthony smiled. "Would you like some Every Flavor Beans, Mr. Thomas? To celebrate?"

Dean eagerly reached for one and popped it into his mouth. "Ah, strawberry!"

By the time Anthony returned to the office corridor, he had given out half the bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans. He always believed that the joy of snacks was in sharing happiness.

His students seemed accustomed to him offering various treats, readily reaching for a few from the bag when he offered. Along the way, Anthony had passed out two pepper, three chocolate, three curry, four mustard, and an unknown number of spinach and marmalade flavored beans.

He paused for a moment before reaching his office door and knocked on Professor Quirrell's instead. After a flurry of noises, the door finally opened a crack. Through the small gap, Professor Quirrell stammered, "P-Professor Anthony?"

Anthony held out the bag of colorful beans. "Would you like one, Professor Quirrell? Consider it a celebration of Gryffindor's victory." He remembered Quirrell had also supported Gryffindor in their last match against Slytherin.

"O-okay," Quirrell said, extending a pale hand from the crack and shakily taking a bean.

"Did you watch the match today, Professor Quirrell?" He didn't recall seeing Quirrell in the stands, but then again, he hadn't paid much attention to which professors were present.

"I d-didn't go," Quirrell replied.

"Well, Gryffindor won quite gloriously. I'm starting to understand why Hagrid says Potter is such a talented flyer," Anthony said. "And the sun was lovely today."

He had always felt their office corridor needed more sunlight. At one end was the bathroom haunted by Moaning Myrtle, at the other was the office shared by a necromancer and a skeletal cat, and in between was the Defense Against the Dark Arts office, perpetually decorated with nothing but garlic by its current occupant.

The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor plucked a dark green bean – Anthony had to admit, it didn't look appetizing – and put it in his mouth, then erupted into a coughing fit.

"What's wrong?" Anthony asked, amused. "Mustard?"

Quirrell coughed out, "N-no... cough... it's vomit."

Anthony realized that Dumbledore wasn't the only one with unfortunate luck when it came to Every Flavor Beans. He had found someone even more unlucky.