A/N: Just thought I would a do a no-plot, angst-filled ficlet. Basically, we have the inner ramblings of our favourite characters, all concerning unrequited love (hence the title). If you want to use any of this for your own fic (you know, those feared monologues) just ask and give me credit!

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I am nothing, Rowling is The Everything, don't sue. The sonnet is Shakespeare's LXXXVIII and Draco's quote is from Rhysenn's "Irresistible poison".

Warning: definitely angst, adult issues and slash. If you don't like it, don't read it.

Pairings: It's *unrequited* love, people, there are no actual pairings!

Chapter 1: Ron (although it could be Harry or Draco in the first paragraphs)

I hate myself. Every time I see him, every time he talks to me, every time I must confess to myself that I'm in love with him, I hate myself.

But could it be any other way? It's not supposed to be, I'm not supposed to fall for him, however wonderful, handsome, beautiful, intelligent, famous he is. It's not because he's a boy, no, I've already gotten past that. Half the boys at Hogwarts, and all the girls, are head-over-heels for him, and it's really no wonder. No, it's not that.

It's everything else. It's the generations of hate that stand between us, the families fighting on different sides, the opposite houses... Who am I kidding? It's not that either.

The fact is that he hates me. I know, I'm lying to myself again; it's a game I've gotten very good at since that time I caught myself staring at him in the Great Hall. He doesn't hate me, and I wish he would. Masochistic? No, on the contrary. It would be a thousand times better to be hated that to be in the limbo I'm now. There's just one step from hate to love, but who would travel the winding road from contempt to love?

Every time he turns to us, amongst the hatred I see he holds for Harry, I look in vain for a spark of anything, of anything towards me. But there's nothing, I'm just a way to get at my best friend. None of the scathing insults, none of the snide remarks, none of the well-aimed hexes, none of that is for me. He sees me (if he sees me at all) as an appendix of The Boy Who Lived, another stupid Gryffindor that dares taint the air he breathes. No, he doesn't hate me.

But I do, in his place. As I replace his hand on me on those lonely nights, so I replace his hate on me all the time. How did that poem say, the one Hermione made me read from a Muggle author? Here it is, I copied it out in green and silver ink, and it's always under my pillow.

"Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,/ and I will comment upon that offence:/ Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt;/ Against thy reasons making no defence. /Thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill/ To set a form upon desired change,/ As I'll myself disgrace: knowing thy will,/ I will acquaintance strangle, and look strange/ Be absent from thy walks, and in my tongue/ Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell;/ Lest I (too much profane) should do it wrong,/ and haply of our old acquaintance tell./ For thee, against myself I'll vow debate,/ For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate."

It's beautiful. It's painful. And it's not altogether true. I have no "old acquaintance" to tell, and I certainly have no-one to tell it to. Besides, he makes my work much easier. I don't need to think about my defects or invent creative insults, because he does that for me. With one glance of his slate-grey eyes, the only glance he has ever spent on me, he saw right through me, right through the façade I've put for Harry and Hermione and that neither of them has bothered to tear it away or even acknowledge it's there. Ron, the faithful friend, the trusty sidekick, the one that's always there to receive a pat on the back after the others have stolen the limelight. That's what they see, what they want to see, and for them there's certainly no need to probe further.

But Draco has. With a glance he saw right through me, and he has been exploiting it ever since that day, back in the Hogwarts Express, when nothing had been said or done, when I had just met Harry and Draco. He gave a look at me and knew how he could hurt me, to make someone else suffer. Without passion, without remorse, without even wanting to. And Harry flared up, and took offence at what was said of me, and Draco got what he wanted: hurting Harry. That's all I am for him. Even Hermione, with her Mudbloodness and good grades, gets a bit more of attention that I do. But, as Draco himself once said, in occasion of a Quidditch discussion: "But then again, the sidelines are where you belong, anyway." He does know how to hurt me.

Harry and Hermione, and even Ginny and the rest of my family, show their concern, and fuss over me, but what can I tell them? "Sure, guys, what's wrong with me is the fact that I'm pining for the boy I'm meant to hate, for the boy who has tried to ruin our lives, for the boy who hates my family, for the boy who is a supporter of You-Know-Who". Harry would surely try to kill me, but would be outrun by my mother; my father would have had a heart attack as soon as I'd said the word "boy", and Ginny would be crying her eyes out. Hermione would run to the library to look for a book about Love Potions, and Fred and George would be force-feeding me TongueToffee. Percy would surely denounce me to the Ministry, Charlie would throw me to his dragons and Bill would lock me inside a pyramid. No, I can't tell anyone.

Love isn't blind, it's colour-blind. It doesn't see the difference between Dark and Light. I don't see it that well either, not since seeing Draco. And I know I'm withering away, I know I'm not eating properly, I know I can't sleep, I know I'm not paying attention in class, but I don't care. And I'll pretend to hate him, I'll still blush and pale every time I see him and attribute it to hatred, I'll follow him with an intense stare, hoping one day he'll turn round and notices I exist.

And it's killing me, this love is killing me. But it's the only thing I've got, it's the only place where I can beat him, even if only I know about it. Because he may be better-looking, he may be richer, he may be smarter, he may be better at Quidditch, but I'm better at this. Love, obsession, however you want to call it, I'm better at it. And maybe some he'll notice, maybe he'll give me a second look and see all that I don't dare tell him. I'll wait, there's nothing else I can do. I'll wait.

------------------------- A/N: I know, sickeningly sweet at times, angsty at others. Incoherent? Of course, have you ever had coherent thoughts? Yes? Is it only me, then? Damn! Anyway, REVIEW to tell me if you liked it or didn't like it! Also, if you've got a... let's call it "pairing", to suggest, leave it in a review and I'll try to do it. Thanks!