Weasel
Ron sighed to himself and let his guard down, his back, normally slouched, straightening in a langorous stretch, then he collapsed against his chair, staring into the fire broodingly. Finally. It had taken them forever to go away.
He made a face as Harry's troubles crossed his mind. Stupid teenage things, all of them, and he was tired of stupid teenage things, tired of all this pretending, tired of having to hide who he was and sick of this game.
It was rather stupid of them, really, to believe that everything was for or against them in this war. War was the breeding ground of mistrust, and within mistrust was the key to breaking laws. Not that he was breaking laws--his business was much more subtle than that. A blockade-runner, and--he smiled wryly--a negotiator, of sorts. But mistrust made it so much easier.
And this was the perfect job. Ron let his smile widen, his eyes narrowing and glinting in anticipation of the challenge, a look so uncharacteristic of him that his friends wouldn't know him. But he was not Ron any longer--he was the Weasel. Five years of scheming, five years of acting and skills and luck and sweating and breaks were all coming together, just as he had planned. It had been lucky breaks--for somethings he could not fake. He couldn't feign his chess playing, and he was the best at chess. Now the game was real and thrilling and exciting.
The queen was ready to strike, the players were in position, and checkmate would come quick and with much profit.
Operation Weasel had begun.
A/N: Characters not mine. Sorry, reading too much WoT has made me suspicious of overly-innocent characters, and Ron is such a clueless character that I had to write this, just to get rid of my latent paranoia.