Disclaimer: I do not own the Bartimaeus Trilogy or any of its characters. However, I do own this story in its non-profit entirety. Similarities to other works are merely coincidental.

It Wasn't Meant To Be
Written by JMPchick

1. Nathaniel

Nathaniel sighed. It wasn't easy, being him. Sign papers. Grant favors. Deal with jealous individuals desiring your power, wealth, whatnot...Tiresome, but that was the price of being Head of Internal Affairs, the youngest minister in the history of Britain. He had regrets, but not many, and they weren't worth dwelling over when there was so much work to be done. In spite of all this, the fourteen-year-old magician subconsciously allowed his gaze to float over to the window in a glorious view of the Thames. His intense brown eyes glazed over slightly, and an indistinct flush tinged his pale face. One thought only drifted across his mind, and it did not have anything to do with the teetering mound of carelessly stacked papers before him.

It wasn't meant to be.

In self-anger and -shame, he shook his head, and short strands whipped his face, red in embarrassment. Ever since he dismissed the quick-witted, wiseguy djinni Bartimaeus he had altered his appearance greatly. His long mane of hair had cleverly been cut once every few days, so as not to alarm the other workers, and gradually, without anyone noticing, he fancied, it was restored to a manageable length, like that of any average male commoner. He no longer donned the ridiculously lacy and bulky ensemble (Bartimaeus had been quite rapid in finding fault with it), but a normal dark suit with a pale tie, usually yellow, as a mocking tribute to the previous Head, Julius Tallow, whose buttercup complexion was always a source of great and cruel amusement. Underneath was always a starched button-down white shirt, and on the inside pocket of his suit a fancy handkerchief, sometimes in a gaudy color. Nathaniel, or John Mandrake as he was known publicly, was very proud of his appearance, and currently loathed Milanese silk. Suitable for a bed pillow, perhaps, but not a suit! Well and shamefacedly did he recall his previous attire - preposterous for a magician of his rank and skill!

It wasn't meant to be.

In frustration, he pounded his fist on his overflowing desk. He regretted it moments later, for nearly the whole tower of papers toppled over. Cursing, he took care to shut his door, should anyone be looking, and began the long process of retrieving each and every sheet of paper. Shame Faquarl wasn't here; Bartimaeus had said he would be very adept at practical chores. Unfortunately, he never had the time to summon a proper demon to cater to his every whim, and this tedious task supplied the unwanted time to think about her. He was mortified to admit it, but when Bartimaeus had told him to cheer up in the Prague graveyard and fantasize that he was on a "romantic assignment with a pretty, young girl magician", he did have someone in mind. He hoped fervently Bartimaeus hadn't observed his little giveaway blush - then again, not only did the irksome demon have an able, insulting mind, he had sharp eyes also. Scant chance it had gone unobserved, he thought dryly.

It wasn't meant to be.

He clenched his jaw in fury again. Why couldn't he concentrate on anything? Why did she haunt his thoughts? Why? Love is such a fickle thing; when he hadn't been so occupied, it was nothing, pushed to the back of his mind. Now that he was so busy, the dratted thought wouldn't leave him be! She would be long gone by now, far away from the Ministry. She had been so dedicated to her traitor of a master, and upon discovery of his treason, she was torn between loyalty to the Empire or her master. She had chosen a neutral - fleeing the government and shedding his name to live as a content commoner. Besides, why should she choose him? His only attractive traits were his intelligence, power, and wealth. And she had always technically been his direct foe. It wasn't meant to be. Plain and simple. Besides, he, Nathaniel, had been the one who unmasked her master and consequently destroyed her high lifestyle. She would never forgive him for that.

It wasn't meant to be.

Similar thoughts bounced from one wall of his skull to another, refusing to let him think of anything else. By the time he had completed the paper stacking (neatly, edges touching), the sun was sliding below the horizon like a multicolored ball of infinite dimensions leaving behind its brilliant trail. He had to go home now; work was officially almost over. And so was his thought session. The last mark this left behind was:

It wasn't meant to be. Goodbye, Jane Farrar.