A/N: While I am in fact a Lily/James shipper, I was listening to the song "The Traitor" (Leonard Cohen's song, but at the time I was listening to Martha Wainwright), and just started to write this. Listen to the song, or check out the lyrics, and I'm sure it'll make a lot more sense where I'm coming from.
Perhaps, at one time, I'd had the opportunity, but it was long gone by now.
It took me years to figure out that I loved her. I lied to myself for a long time before submitting to the painful truth. By then, she'd fallen for another, and I could only watch in horror and despair as my lovely flower succumbed to his insipid charms and juvenile proclamations.
And when she withered, well before her time, I tried to blame him. For weeks I would swear it was him, but as always, I could never lie to myself for too long.
I was to blame for her death.
I'd chosen my road; given up the chance of love for a bitter future of loneliness, unhappy power in an empty cause that had seduced me, paralyzed me. I was a traitor, but only to my own heart.
Perhaps, at one time, I'd had the opportunity.