"But that's not the question," argues Severus (who often can do things like that and has terrified students returning from trysts with his talents for years, but who also for years has been happy to have DE folks underestimate his skills as a spy). "Can you tell the difference between common and true maidenhair by scent, or whether too much powdered amethyst has been added to a cauldron of spell-correcting ink? You're talking about specialization and training now, not olfactory acuity." He gives Rus a confused look and suspicious look. "Well, yes..."
Severus nods. "Not even black ones?"
He shrugs, amused. "Perhaps eventually asleep?"
"Which is what I've been saying all along, but tell that to the Ministry."
Severus gives T1 an exasperated and accusatory look, and moves the man's glass (suddenly mysteriously an inch or so lower) away from Rus's. He takes a drink from his own while rolling eighteen, loosens his fingers, and throws one in the eighteen wedge, one in the triple six, and one as near to the last dart he threw into the outer bull as makes no difference. "Not bad," he remarks of the bottle, handing Rus the darts back and 'subtly' edging even the glass of tea farther away from him.
Oh, Westerns and Kurosawa had been in a symbiotic relationship long before he got on the scene...