He's a bit of an ugly thing.

Humans are about what glitters, not what is actually gold. It would be frustrating if any of them were really worth it. Any of the ones so far anyway are just boring children. Adults rarely come here, not to Diagon Alley. This is where all the wonder, the glamour, the magic, happens. The adults go to places where old cats live and children do not, leaving the bad apples to rot and then get a Draught of Living Death or something similar. It's a waste of time but no one notices. They have had too many exuberant years without the dark one and too many rotting years ahead.

Only the incoming war is relevant.

That's what Crookshanks has figured. Why else would no one want a Kneazle blood? Why else would no one want someone of his quality and talent. It was ridiculous. And yet there they were, walking right past his perch. Well, phooey on them.

But one day a smell would come. The smell of all smells, the smell of the person that knew what they wished for and it would be granted by him.

It's a humdrum day when it happens. When she walks in smelling of ink and Muggle fertilizer and light bulbs.

He leaps down for her, to her, spotting ebony skin and gently worn clothes and inquisitive eyes.

He knows at once. His.

Crookshanks leaps into her arms and purrs.

A/N: Hey look guys, I'm alive! And here is another little bit of Artemis that you could argue as canon if you wanted!

Challenges: One Series Bingo prompt 146: a first meeting and Diversity Writing CoM A52.