A/N: Next in the tropes series: This is not so much a trope as it has turned into a downright cliche – the bash fic. Where everyone is out to kill Harry without actually doing so, his adopted family wants him for his money and his two friends contain either a clueless soul-mate tricked into working against him, a traitor (one or both, it's not that uncommon), a soul-mate who keeps finding out only to be obliviated and/or potioned back into the 'let's-kill-Potter' club while everyone else is clueless as to what's actually going on. The number of fics containing these tropes is actually kind of frightening. Everyone seems to think that the good guys have got to be bad since nobody can possibly be that dumb.

Well, news-flash guys, they can. It's rather easy too. If you want real-life examples of good people dropping the ball so hard it changes history, look no further than Neville Chamberlain-the guy was pretty damn good at what he did and had done exemplary work for the British Government before becoming Prime Minister. Those were the days when merit still had a say . But what is he remembered for? That's right-allowing Hitler to annex the Sudetenland region of Czechoslovakia (which went on to become part of Reinhard Heydrich's old stomping grounds and a key weapons manufacturing region for the Third Reich) in the name of peace. We all know how well that turned out, don't we?

But anyway, the bash fic. The people Harry trusts are out to get him. The fic generally starts at the point where Harry learns about the manipulations and picks up when he proceeds to easily demolish the conspiracy(ies) through the power of righteous indignation. And Goblins. And Noble titles. And Love. And relatives coming back to life under mysteriously stupid circumstances. Anyway, generally bash-fics end in utterly ridiculous ways in which everyone who's wronged the subject suffers grievous consequences while the poorly done by boy-who-lived gets the money, the titles, the girl and the victory long denied to him. In other words, wish fulfillment via failed conspiracy.

It does my head in. The whole idea of the bash fic in and of itself is ridiculous. For a conspiracy of that magnitude to remain a secret requires the collusion of everyone involved in it. As in, everyone. Not necessarily the subject, mind, but the entire world the subject lives in has got to be tailored towards ensuring the right outcome. Which means total control by the conspirators of the world in which the conspiracy plays out in. This is simply stupid-the wizarding world is too chaotic for such a conspiracy to last a week, let alone an entire decade and a half, as is generally the case. The remaining Death Eaters, at the very least, would sense an opportunity here-Dumbledore's crafting the Boy-Who-Lived into a weapon? Fine, how easy would it be to turn the BWL against Dumbledore? With the vast majority of these fics, it's a cinch. Just provide the kid with the right evidence and Tom's his new, slightly psychotic, uncle.

Nevertheless, it is popular, though the gods know why. So here's my idea for it.

Warning: It's a fun read. And Ron's the one being bashed, but in a fun way-which is unfair, really, because Ron cops far too much flak for being a teenage male with confidence issues in fanon as it is, but writing a completely selfish version of him is admittedly all kinds of fun. Hope you like the results.

My name is Ronald Bilius Weasley. I'm the sixth son of Molly and Arthur Weasley, a Gryffindor student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and a member in good standing of the Golden Trio, the heroes of the Wizarding World.

And I hate Harry James Potter. Not for his money. Not for his titles. Not for his fame. Not for his skill with the ladies. No, those are not why I hate him. After all, he's not even aware that he has all of these things. Seriously, he's denser than my sister after one of Mom's potions, which is saying something.

No. I don't hate Potter for that. I hate him because he fucked up my life without even knowing it.

See, I'm a Slytherin. Or a Hufflepuff. Or possibly even a Ravenclaw. I have the brains, the ambition and the networking skills to pull it off. What I am not, in any way, shape or form, is a Gryffindor. I am not brave. I am not steadfast in the face of adversity. I do not willingly charge into the fray in defence of whatever the cause of the week happens to be. And I sure as hell am not noble.

But Harry Bloody Potter just had to get sorted into Gryffindor. Which meant that I, as the side-kick bought and paid for by Dumbledore as the old bat's early-warning system should the densest kid in the universe somehow suss out what is going on, had to follow.

I hate it. Every second of my waking existence is a reminder of what I am. One of the Dirt Poor Weasleys. Pureblooded, light-sided and not a knut to their names. As the sixth in line to the head of house name, I don't stand a fucking chance of changing the way my name is seen by the broader community either. Which is a shame, really-there hasn't been a Weasley that hasn't been good at what he or she has done. Take Bill & Charlie-highly successful in their careers, revolutionising their respective fields of study, as daring as any red-head on a mission with the brains to back up their ambition. Both dirt poor, because it's somehow acceptable to pay Weasleys less than everyone else because, hey, they're poor anyway. And they go along with it, because it's what we Weasleys do.

We find something we like, we go for it. I see it in every single one of my siblings-Ginny's quidditch mad, the twins are prank mad, Percy's got a massive hard-on for politics, Charlie's dragons all the way and Bill's all about stealing old stuff for fun & profit. Dad's muggle mad, which is held against him, but you can totally see that he is a Weasley in the amount of shits he gives about that. And me? Well, I'm money-mad. I've always been fascinated by the stuff-making it, using it, figuring out how it works. I blame my squib cousin and his mutterings about the muggle stock exchange. I want some of that. And normally I'd be free to pursue it like any other Weasley was free to pursue their passion (and boy, do I ever want to). But I can't.

Because Mom is a Prewitt. And she owes Dumbledore, big time.

This is the story; Molly Prewitt falls in love with Arthur Weasley. Arthur Weasley falls in love with Molly Prewitt. Molly Prewitt doesn't know this. Molly Prewitt uses a love potion on Arthur Weasley, leading Arthur to declare his true feelings to Molly Prewitt. Molly Prewitt feels bad about what she's done, stops feeding Arthur Weasley the potion and confesses to him. Arthur brushes it off and tells her how he feels about her. Weasley senior is not so forgiving. Molly Prewitt is now in deep and heavy shit-potioning a pureblood into loving you is a capital offence, since it could lead to families hi-jacking each other's succession lines. It's a death sentence, almost automatic-all you need for it to happen is to drag the culprit in front of a judge, present the barest thread of evidence and it's hello Dementor/Veil/Killing Curse. Both Molly Prewitt and Arthur Weasley, their pleas for her life falling on deaf ears, then make a very, very big mistake.

They turn to Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore for assistance. And he succeeds where no mere lawyer could-Molly Prewitt gets off scot-free, the couple get married within a month and ickle Billy's born about six months later. The Prewitts and the Weasleys keep their mouths shut and the newly minted Weasley matriarch-to-be gets little but lip service at parties. Mom, of course, having never really gotten along with the older generation, doesn't give two knuts even when she has them to give.

Fast forward about ten years. Dumbledore drops by at the Burrow and asks for some 'help'. Nobody's really fooled by this. He's finally come to collect on saving Mom's life. The price?

Me. And maybe Ginny, but I didn't really ask. Joy.

In short, I am the boy-who-lived's handler. It's up to me to make sure he's little more than an average teen. Not too smart, not too dumb. Not too popular, not too shunned. Which is damn hard, let me tell you-but at least I know now that I am a deft hand indeed when it comes to public relations and image management. Not too loved, not too hated. Not too good, not too bad. In short, it's my job to keep the prophecied hero of the wizarding world from actually becoming just that.

And the only way that I can do that is by becoming the friend of the very person I hold the most responsible for the way my life is turning out. Did I mention how much I hate my life? I mean, I'm a Weasley, for fuck's sake. We're no-one's minions! Except for me. No wonder my brothers treat me like krup-shit. If they were in my position, I would too. Gleefully.

And then there's the mudblood. Shocked that I would use the word? Well, let me tell you, she fits the stereotype alright. See, she looks down her nose at everyone and everything magical. She thinks we're a bunch of back-country hicks that keep fucking each other's cousins until our babies turn retarded enough to take leadership posts in the Ministry whilst enslaving defenceless elves for fun and profit. The fact that she isn't as far off as she thinks she is is galling enough in itself. But then she goes, studies every book in the library and rubs everyone's nose in just how much better she is and how superior the world she was born into is when compared to the one I was born into. And when anyone tells her that maybe, if she liked it so much, that she should just toddle on back there, she turns around and says 'that's the plan'. She's a walking, talking Death Eater recruitment ad to the Slytherins. Hell, there are times where she tempts me into joining them. Which would be bad, because that would imply that me and Malfoy finally agree on something. So I just scowl and bear it.

Because Harry loves her. And Hermione loves him. And neither know it. It's sickeningly cute-the completely average teen and the mudblood bookworm with anger management & social relations issues, head over heels in love with each other since the end of their first year and acting as if they were merely the best of friends. I cannot be rid of her without being rid of him, which means that I have to weigh punching her bossy little lights out against how much I love my mother. Whom I love too damn much to condemn to death just to re-arrange the 'dentist's daughter's' teeth. Once. Maybe if I got to do it twice-nah. Bloody conscience. Have I said I hate my life? Because it bears repeating by this stage.

So here I am-stuck in the machinations of the dumbest Light Lord ever because Mom was too bloody dense to keep her mouth shut. Forced to babysit Harry Potter, the Dunce-who-lived and his future bitch of a wife because Voldemort didn't get the message about sacrificial traits and nerdy muggleborns, which bears thinking about. For all her flaws, Granger has given up everything for Harry. She could have been successful and popular in her nerdy way. She could have moved on and left for greener pastures, just like common sense dictated she do after her first and second year. Instead, she threw it all away. Because Harry needed her. I respect her for that, if for nothing else. Doesn't mean she's making my (highly stressful, totally unpaid) job any easier.

But I have a plan for that. One the prophecy handed me on a silver platter. I could have fame, fortune and as many girls as I could get my hands on by making sure one set of circumstances came to pass.

Put simply, if I make sure Harry and Hermione die and leave me everything in their will, then guess what? I get the fame, the money and the titles Potter doesn't know exist. As the last surviving member of the Golden Trio (and only reliable witness to the events alive by that stage, what with Dumbledore dead and Snape being about as trusted as Pettigrew afterwards-if he doesn't buy it too), I get to write history. And I'm pretty sure that there are a lot of people willing to pay very good money to have said history edited by yours truly... Heh, if I play my cards right, the entire Weasley clan will be set for centuries to come.

Dumbledore, of course, will get shafted. After everything that asshole has made me do in the name of the Greater Good, all the tricks he's made me play on others (hey, I may hate Harry, but not enough to convince him to go after a basilisk with nothing but Lockhart and myself as backup. That was just... mean), all the complications he's added to the job he gave me, there is no way in fucking hell I'm letting that old fuck get away squeaky clean. Skeeter, eat my shrivelled ballsack darl, because some of the things I know make Albie's little tryst with Gellert look downright cute in comparison.

And, best of all, I'll be free. Blissfully, gloriously free of Gryffindor blockheads, bossy mudbloods, idiotic parents, old wizards of questionable sexuality, the Ministry, the Order and the Death Eaters. Free to finally look up my cousin and cash in on some of those fine opportunities on offer in the muggle world before retiring with a wife or five, ten legitimate kids (and a quidditch team's worth of bastards) and a mountain of cash that not even the multiple divorces I'll have for shits & giggles can dent.

So, the plan is simple. Survive, for one. Easy. Just stand behind my Gryffie pals and push. They'll sort out the rest. Second, get myself written into their will. Done and dusted; one little comment about how this was a good idea, what with the war and all that going on, and that was it. Third, wait for the prophecy to come into play and push Hermione into the crossfire if she doesn't end up in it by default. Again, easy. Dumbledore's little scheme has turned Harry into little more than a mouthy target. Thanks, Albus. I'll be sure to piss on your grave for involving me in that one. But hey, it's kind of useful to my plans, so thanks anyway. Bitch. Now all I have to do is push bossy mudblood into the fight alongside Harry, sit back and wait for Snake face to do what he does best. The end.

And what with me replacing the love potions Mom's been feeding Harry, Hermione and little sis with flavoured wateron the sly (Prewitts never learn from experience. It's a fact of life. That's why they're so damn fertile-full Prewitts tend to have a single-digit survival rate before hitting the age of 17, so they need a lot of sprogs to make up for their lack of common fucking sense), I've ensured that little sis'll stay out of the crossfire (big brother brownie points anyone?) and that Hermione won't be able to resist the old 'Harry needs you' bullshit I'll hit her with.

Is it bad that I can practically hear the 'ker-ching' in my head? No, no it isn't. See, I've worked hard for that money. I've played the idiot, the weasel, the quidditch-obsessed chess-player, the petty bully, the clueless near-squib for the entire duration of my Hogwarts career. All because a bunch of idiots not fit to lick my boots fucked up a fairly straightforward prophecy before delegating the problem to my generation to solve. As far as I can tell, Harry's going to die and, with Harry dead, Hermione won't be far behind. My bet is that she'll go for the suicide by Death Eater option-if she doesn't get killed right alongside Harry, that is. I've got ten galleons riding on that outcome with Snape (he's an ass-hole, but he's an honourable one), who's put five down on her not even making it to Harry's confrontation. So they're both going to die. I'm just making sure it's for a good cause-my empty wallet.

And today is the day all my dreams come true. Well, more or less. Tweedle-dee, the lesser twin, is kind of dead, which wasn't part of the plan. Then I remember how he used to turn my teddy bear into a spider when we were kids and snigger. Take that, fuckhead. There's a huge-ass battle going on in the school. Reminds me of the department of mysteries fuck-up Dumbledore set up to bump off Sirius two years ago. And yes, that actually seriously (heh heh) happened. Snape plus desperate Dark Lord plus Sirius being himself on a battlefield. Predictable outcome? You betcha.

Today is the day of the final battle. Dumbledore's bat-shit crazy plan is working, which means dear ole Harry, ole pal of mine is thankfully not long of this fucked up world. Granger is making gooey eyes at him and, worryingly, eyeing me up as, I think, a potential replacement. Fat chance, bitch. I've had enough of your shouting to last me a lifetime. You'll take that kedavra in the ass and like it. So I break out obnoxious face number twelve (slight scowl, crossed eyes), upon which the thoughtful look vanishes faster than a Malfoy from Azkaban. Heh, still got it.

"We need to split up." Potter breathes out. "Ron, Hermione, take the cup into the chamber and destroy it. I'm going to, uh, to look for something."

"Fat chance, mate." I say. This was, I felt instinctively, it. Push her into his arms now and get ready to cash in. "They'll be looking for you, you know. Death Eaters. If you're all alone against them..." I trail off, waiting for the implications to percolate his thick fucking head. Predictably, it takes him a while. His bushy-haired limpet gets it sooner though. "There you go. Look, I'll just get Nev to give me some of the guys and we'll go get whatever it is you're looking for, alright? Besides, who here's a parseltongue? Me? Hermione? Face it mate, you're the best choice for this."

Dimwit nods reluctantly while I subtly push bushy bitch in his direction. She looks at me in surprise and I just motion her forward with a smile. I don't care about that crush you've been harbouring for me, girl, I'm not the one you fucking love. Go show it to him-and get your ass fried while you're at it. "Okay." Harry says reluctantly. "Coming, 'Mione?"

Bushy bitch nods and takes his hand. Myrrdin Emrys, I cannot wait to see these two dead. The less schmaltz in this world, the better.

Harry gives me some dumb-ass instructions on how to get to the pensieve to prepare it for his arrival, to which I just nod along. I already know how to get to the pensieve, you stupid fuck, not that you'd know. I spent hours in the damn thing when Dumbledore wanted to know if you were doing as he planned for you to do. Mudblood wishes me good luck and starts to drag Harry behind her, on a mission as always.

I high-tail it up to the headmaster's office via one of the many secret passageways known only to the headmaster and the castle's employees. Not a Death Eater in sight. After arriving in the barmy old bastard's office, I head for the memory vial storage area and have a little playtime, destroying the ones containing my reports in them (wouldn't do to leave that lying around), pouring all of Snape's non-me-related memories into the bowl, adding the last ones to them as well as the ones Dumbledore earmarked for my perusal, specifically the ones related to the whole plan and what role who played in it. Given that it only listed major players, I wasn't mentioned in them. I checked.

Now before you ask why I was about to subject the suckers to information overload, it's because of something neither Dumbledore nor Voldemort never really handled well-plan C. I had plan A-Potter and Granger die in a fire and I piss on their ashes whilst enjoying their cash. Plan B-either of them survive, one short sharp assassination on the battlefield and I piss on their ashes and enjoy their cash. This, as far as I can tell, is about as far as Albus or Tommy usually get before saying 'fuck it, let's do some magic'. I, possessing slightly more common sense than a leader of all that is good in this world going into politics (an event that probably caused me to be in this position in the first place) and a genocidal madman that has totally failed to kill one measley, clueless, starved and uneducated teenager, have gone beyond their level by actually having a back-up plan for my back-up plan. Here it is; plan C-they survive, I can't kill them, ergo I need to make sure that I was either their pal all along or completely clueless about what me 'helping' Dumbledore entailed until I could cash in on all that gold I plundered from the Lestrange vault while the other two were flailing around like idiots and high-tail it. The pensieve features heavily in plan C. Then I enjoy Lestrange's cash and make enough in the muggle world to keep enjoying it. Poor me. Boo Hoo. Good, eh? I'm pretty proud of myself for that one.

Anyway, once that's done, I decide to take some time off to 'hunt Nagini', ie enjoy a randy Hufflepuff looking for one last shag before being turned into hamburger by Death Eaters. Man, Hannah's awesome. Such a tight ass was surely a crime against nature somewhere-perfection and nature didn't mix, after all. Neither of us bother with contraceptive charms. Her, because she doesn't think she'll survive and, quote, doesn't want to die a virgin, unquote. Me, because I don't think she'll survive, so why bother? Still, I'll remember that tight ass at her funeral. I just know I'll miss it.

I stop in the Great Hall to check if any of my other brothers bought it. No such luck. Damn. Feign tears, Ron, it's the least you can do. Oh man, Lupin and Tonks! I liked those two, their infatuation with Potter not-withstanding. Brains, honour and a total lack of money-I always considered them honourable Weasleys. Wait, who got their sprog again? Oh that's right, Harry and Hermione! I release the breath I was holding. Not on the hook on that one. That's quite the bullet to dodge. Aww, lookit widdle Ginny crying over her dead brother! Trust me kiddo, if I hadn't kept him off your back for ten years, you'd be singing a vastly different tune. Karma. It's like a ton of bricks. Hee-hee. Mom was bawling her eyes out. Eh. You didn't know him like I did, Mom. My eulogy to him'll be one to remember, alright. Anyhoo, moving on-random student #15, random Death Eater #20, dead random Death Eater Commander- quick rifle through his pockets and bam! Woohoo, free cache of jewellery! Naughty naughty, dead mass murdering asshole! No shinies for you! Not that you care anymore, but hey...

And there's Potter and Granger hurrying by. Boo yah! Dead Snape's memories for the win! You go show the rest of the world how a Gryffindor dies, guys! I'll be right behind you. Far, far behind you, but still right there.

I mill around, generally trading sob stories with some of the muggleborn kids I like (there are more of them than you might think. I'm not that bad) about how shit food is on the run and the like, trade glances with a nervous-looking Neville rallying the troops like Dumbledore'd trained him to (I wonder who turned out to be his handler. My money's on Seamus) and generally ambling towards the safest spot on the front lines-the far side of it. Plenty of space to run if I end up needing to. Let the others get pasted, I'm here to watch Riddle get his ass handed to him by Longbottom aka Dumbledore's backup Plan A. I'm joined by Luna, who's got the brains to capitalise on that insanity of hers, and Susan Bones, whose aunt fell victim to one of Dumbledore's 'whoops' moments. Huh, nice to know I'm not the only one with some common sense out here. Surprised it's the two best fighters in the school not in Gryffindor.

And finally, the Death Eaters trudge into view. It's a sorry fucking sight. About the only one who looks anything like as good as us is Snake Face hisself. All the others look like they just got sucked off by a Dementor.

And there's Hagrid, carrying the corpses of Potter and Granger and bawling like a bitch. I feel bad for him, I really do. But he'll live-maybe. And if he doesn't, well it won't matter that much anymore anyway.

Nev marches out and reacts to Riddle's bullshit. Riddle responds, burns the hat and tosses it to Nev. I'll be honest, I'm not really listening. I know enough about Dumbledore's schemes to watch for the 'plot twist'. I was, after all, the recipient of one. Fucking Pettigrew. That man slept in my bed for five fucking years! All because Albus couldn't bear to tell us to keep him in a cage. Fuck you, Albus. Burn in hell, you old bitch. Aaand there it is! Nev yoinks the sword out of the hat and beheads Nagini.

And we're off.

Susan, Luna and I are duking it out with a bunch of Death Eater stragglers when the worst outcome in the history of outcomes happens. The corpses of my erstwhile best friends are standing and casting again. I almost freeze, which almost costs me an arm & a leg (literally, what with having to dodge a cutting curse and all). Fuck. This cannot be happening. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.Wasn't the sword enough, you old goat? You had to make them immortal as well? Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, plan C it is then. Then, it finally happens. Voldemort launches a green bolt, Harry launches a red one, Voldemort loses, Harry gets the Elder Wand.

Harry James Potter is now officially the Master of Death. Able to command answers from the dead at will. And the first person he's likely to summon? Take three guesses.

If Albus blabs-and he will-I'm proper fucked.

Everyone's cheering as the Death Eaters run. I do so too, half-heartedly, desperately trying to figure out a way to get out of here before Dimwit and Bushy start connecting the dots. Bushy was always good at that. I start to edge to the back of the crowd. Shit, Luna's still looking at me blankly. I wave at her. The blank stare is morphing into... something else. Yep, that's it. Hermione's approaching Luna. Luna's pointing at me.

I've been made. Game Over, as the muggles say. Time to b-yooof!

My balls feel like they're hitting against my lungs. I'm curdled in a foetal position while angry shouting starts to invade the periphery of my senses. Looks like Bones got me good. The tears are not just ones of agony. I'm a dead man.

"Hello Ron." The voice of a very, very angry Harry Potter invades my perception. I shiver. He sounds a lot like Tommy-boy did before he blasted people into chunks. "Let's have a little talk together. Just you, me and Hermione. For old times' sakes. What do you say?"

Well crap. What can I say to that? Every single survivor is looking at us in confusion. The Order, privy to some of the backdoor dealings involving me, are being restrained by DA members. And Hermione is starting to look an awful lot like Bellatrix. I am so, so screwed.

Man, it's days like these I wish I'd come up with a plan D.