DISCLAIMER: All but the plot belong to J.K. Rowling and company, except for the song Wonderwall by Oasis.
Today is gonna be the day
That they're gonna throw it back to you
By now you should've somehow
Realized what you gotta do
I don't believe that anybody
Feels the way I do about you now
The world was dark. That was undeniable. Unfortunately, the question of whether it was broken was yet to be answered. There were still those who sat on seats of inscrutable power, but in these seats were a new breed of the upper crust. The few who had survived the Great War with their fortunes were treated like spitting pet kittens—affectionately cared for, and a great source of amusement, but they were quick to be caged for letting out their claws. As for the rest that had survived the Great War without their fortunes, they had earned some sort of credibility in the wizarding community for having abandon these fortunes for what was good and what was right.
With the economy nearly shot, many people had independently made it to the top of the monetary ladder with pure dumb luck. As for the rest, things finally seemed balanced. Large, poor families could afford what they needed, as could small, wealthier families.
The problem was that money didn't seem to mean a thing anymore. This second coming begged for some answers, and people would pay anything for a feeling. Feelings. The passion of the late teens to mid-twenties set was nearly lost, as the majority of it had gone into the Great War. At a time when they should have been experimenting and making love and mistakes, their efforts were going into protecting their ideals—and in that aspect, in the very least, they were young. And, what was worse, they were setting the examples for the generations to follow. This was very, very bad for business. And in this respect, the wizarding world was finally in step with that of the Muggle.
So now money moguls were desperately trying to scrap up some pseudo- excitement to try to stimulate fervor within the youth of the wizarding world. Many would believe that there was a nouveau-'Bohemian'-revolution going on, but no, it was merely profit attempts.
And at the helm of this pseudo-nouveau-Bohemian-revolution was one girl. One girl who wasn't particularly stunning, but her beauty was intimidating because it was cool. She wasn't wealthy on her own accord, and she didn't particularly seem to do anything but go to parties and events and shop and sit around, smoking at the finest restaurants, dress in the trendiest clothes, hang out with the most beautiful and the most talented people. The only phrase that could describe Ginny Weasley was "good-time girl".
For a good-time girl, Ginny Weasley never looked very happy. Oh, sure, she would laugh in the pictures—big white teeth, glossy, red lips, eyes lighting up—but hearing her laugh, had you any instincts, it always sounded as though it were mocking someone. She seemed happiest when she wasn't listening to someone anyway—when she was dancing or doing something that didn't involve talking, listening or otherwise being much more than a mere photograph.
It was questionable as to what Ginny Weasley actually did. School chums always said she was such a bright child in school. She'd been a good Chaser on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, they said. A prefect her fifth and sixth years, and even a Head Girl. Quiet, a serial dater, funny. Of course, the most anyone could define the school-aged Ginny Weasley with, should all of this other information dip right out of their heads, was the mere fact that she was the youngest Weasley, and a girl.
It turns out that Ginny Weasley happened to be two things, besides a good- time girl. As a career, if you could call it that, Ginny Weasley was all about public relations. Her specialty was throwing big parties for clients, planning every stylish degree, from the food to the decorations to the people, to the publicity it got. Any journalists or photographers whether freelance or contract that pissed her off were blacklisted for life. No exclusives for them, ever. It hadn't originally started out that way, but in the beginning, Ginny had a lot of spite, coming from a family welcomed in many circles, all but one. She had a long memory and too much vengeance to let things go. So as she gained more power, more individual bitches and assholes went down the drain because they couldn't have been bothered to cut the once ingénue a break.
The second and least important of the two things Ginny Weasley happened to be was the mistress of an infamous womanizer who continued to womanize. Yvon Bernhardt, a Frenchman with a taste for challenges and projects, had a lot of money to waste. And that he did. He paid for all of Ginny's expenses, from her shopping to her business, and never got any share of the profits. She was his official girlfriend while he often traipsed across Europe with several more. It was pretty hush-hush beyond the upper crust, and Ginny didn't seem to mind.
Now as to the name of Ginny. It was an issue Ginny herself rarely addressed. These days 'Gin' was being used by the papers as some sort of affectionate term, the way you would address an old school chum you had great laughs with and who now was wackier than ever and doing unbelievable deeds. "Oh, that's just so Gin."
So that was seemingly inappropriate within her truest of friends and family, but neither did her birth name Ginevra hold any merit, as the name disgusted her because of the infliction and connotation with which it was used. Not only did acquaintances and lovers use it as if she was just an accessory, an ornament, but as an accessory and an ornament you talked down to. With Ginevra out of mind, Ginny seemed to be the most suitable nickname for her.
The leader of a revolution unknowingly soothing the wounds of a terrible war and every bit of heartbreak that went along with it was suddenly about to meet her own challenge, not just those she'd accidentally had to face.
"Weasley." Was all his best friend and business partner said to him, before thrusting a copy of Wizards' Business Weekly onto the sleek glass table.
Draco Malfoy squinted, and put on his sunglasses before reaching for his cigarette. Nasty habit. He should give it up. "That's what you fucking dragged me out of bed for?"
"Shut the fuck up." Blaise Zabini snapped, sitting directly across from his best friend in an equally comfortable lounge chair. The rare sunshine of the London morning was quite startling, Blaise would agree, but Draco Malfoy always woke up early, ever since he was small. "Fucking Ginny Weasley is sharing that cover with us, Malfoy, and what did she ever do to deserve it? Throw a couple of fucking parties."
Blaise grinned. "They must be great parties."
Draco shrugged and didn't reach for the magazine. Blaise and Draco had decided to go into business together in their seventh year of Hogwarts. Scared straight away from Azkaban, they had faced more than just losing the millions of galleons their families had, but losing their lives. They were still cocky little shitters, but now they were poor cocky little shitters. All they had left were names they could not use, and a chance to reform.
So they did. It was a painful process, and they had plenty of habits that died hard. They did their best to drop grudges formed by generations of the families they were no longer part of. It was when they were both desperate for a bite to eat that they went and sold their secrets to Dumbledore.
The price? Credibility. Dumbledore cleared their names as parts of legendarily dark clans, which gave them business opportunities, and, in return, revenge on the families that had so easily dismissed them. Having renounced the Dark Lord and confirming many of the theories his opposition had come to concluding, the pair was also offered protection.
It had been six years since they had gone through the turmoil of giving everything up and trying to discover what was really them and what was what they had been raised to be, but it turned out that Blaise was merely a charismatic party boy with great people skills, and Draco was something of a hard ass with brilliant business sense.
They now headed a Quidditch empire named the Diamond Blaze. The balcony of the hotel overlooked nearly the whole of London, and Blaise, irritated with Draco's indifference, picked up the magazine as Draco put out his cigarette in disgust with himself.
"The New Breed of Purebloods by Todd Teagan. You do remember little Toddy? That eager little friend of Creevey?" Blaise smirked. "He interviewed me last week, as you're something of, how can we say it, a downer? It was such a bitch to get you even close to the studio for photographs."
"Get on with it, you dirty little pussy." Draco snarled.
"Touchy, are we?" Blaise was so light-hearted; he was nearly a giddy little Gryffindor girl. "'Undeniably, the word pure has something of a negative connotation in this day and age, primarily because of the philosophies which have destroyed many a family and a good witch or wizard. Nowadays, the pure are trying their hardest to prove they are not as they used to be, and those with the most success at the moment are the clan of Weasleys, as they have always been known for being good and hardworking. Individually, they are all succeeding. But the youngest Weasley, Ginevra, in addition to the disowned sons of two of the largest Death Eater families, Blaise Zabini and Draco Malfoy, have been setting the trail ablaze, not only as leaders of their generation, but as representatives of the new breed of purebloods.'"
"Always knew Toddy was a little puff." Draco muttered.
"Don't sound so homophobic, love, it's so bad for your image." Blaise cooed in a high-pitched voice, letting out afterwards his usual boyish laugh, all teeth showing, and even Draco broke into something of a smile. Blaise continued. "'What more is there to say about Ginevra Weasley that doesn't sound like some petty little gossip column? It is undeniable that the bitingly sarcastic enigma has changed a bit since Hogwarts, where she was on the usual Weasley track—prefect, Quidditch, Head Girl, the whole nine yards—but something she had inherited from her brothers—a stylish sense of fun, was where her business sense when skyrocketing. Now possibly a leader of this generation—'"
"This her?" Draco asked, motioning to the curvy redhead on the magazine cover.
Blaise dog-eared his page and closed the magazine, rolling his eyes. "One would draw that conclusion, now wouldn't they? Christ, Drake, you're so stupid for someone who's so smart."
Draco didn't reply, only taking the magazine from Blaise a little forcefully. A Creevey, featuring Blaise in the bottom corner of the collage triangle, his arm around some anonymous blond who had probably been famous fifteen minutes ago, had obviously overdone the cover photo. Draco's body wasn't in the shot, just a headshot of him looking pensive. Classic. Weasley, in high heels and barely much else, was at the top of the triangle, looking over her shoulder at the reader. The picture threw him and he tossed the magazine at Blaise.
"Christ, you're grumpy. I'm getting you coffee next time we do this." Blaise muttered, thumbing through the magazine, searching for his page.
"Why are we doing this?" Draco asked, his upper lip curling up in disgust with Blaise's giddiness.
"Well, we've been too busy to go to some of these parties before, and we're on the list for the next one, so I figure we might as well check this chick out so she can handle PR for our company...you know?" Blaise grinned secretively.
"What do you have in mind?" Draco asked wearily, glaring at his business partner. "Well...you'd think that the little heiress to the Firebolt empire would be a little smarter...I've only to fuck her a couple more times and the company is ours."
Draco leapt up, nearly overturning the table. "You're shitting me."
"I shit you not, dear friend." Blaise answered peacefully, his boyish grin spreading across his face. "Contracts are all nearly signed. Perfect reason to throw a party, don't you think?"
"I knew you were good in bed—"
"Oh, love, don't phrase it like that, I'm not a puff."
"But that good?"
"She's eighteen. She doesn't know any better." Blaise retorted in his defense.
"Did we?" Draco muttered, but he too was beginning to smile. "Firebolt. Fuck. Seriously?" Blaise nodded. Draco turned away. "It's a dirty way to get the company."
"But it'd be ours." Blaise replied with a darker tone in his voice. Blaise stood up. "Draco, this would finally get us back everything we gave up for our integrity. BILLIONS. More than we ever had before. Sure, we're living one hell of a life now, but think about it. You'll finally have the business challenges you always wanted...there are so many negotiations that come with an established company—working the old deals so that they fit YOUR needs, not just theirs—making new deals...and me? I'll have more to do, charm-wise, get it? We deserve a fuckin' week of parties for this mess." "
What's Weasley's next event for?" Draco asked after a moment, and Blaise smiled.
"Get this—our little baby Firebolt's eighteenth birthday." Blaise looked pained for a second, but just as Draco wanted to say something, his boyish grin returned. "Come on, let's dig up that invitation."