You don't ask (I don't have an answer).
But you'd like to know.
You would like to know why I'm standing with my wand leveled firmly at your neck (never mind that my breaths are coming just a little shallow), my body blocking the door you're obviously desperate to get through. I can tell, from the betrayal written on your face that you didn't expect this. Didn't expect I'd be here, looking at you with hard eyes (we've all got hard eyes now, all of us except you). You certainly didn't expect to be kept from the fray raging just beyond.
"Ron!" She is panicked; in desperate need of back up. I don't budge. I've always been good at chess, and my current place on the board can't be filled by anyone else. But you're not going to get mercy from me, because with this moment you've cost me everything. I will never forgive you (how many times before have I made that vow to myself?).
Something in you tightens- I can see the exact moment it happens ("Swish and flick!"). You unleash a volley of perfected curses at me, your aim enviable. I'm dead in less than a second. But no- you're dead (hair frizzy as always, scorched and grimy). I cheated. I made my move during your turn, and I won. The blood isn't much darker than my mum's hair, but it stinks (Mum's hair doesn't, often). Anguish etched into your face the way Moody's scars are etched into his.
I leave you there and sprint through the arch to the courtyard, peeling off curses and hexes as my feet carry me towards the twins. In chess, it would have been an illegal move- this going from one square to another in ways that no pawn can (Harry never thinks of us as pawns). I'm helping them keep the Death Eaters from entering the north end of the school (I've never been sure what this entrance is called).
"She's gone?" Fred asks. I don't ask who he means. I'm not entirely sure it matters.
George screams another spell (everything matters in chess). Fred holds my gaze.
"Yeah." My voice doesn't crack.
"Bloody hell," he spits hoarsely, before flashing a newly invented curse towards a Death Eater. There won't be funeral, Hermione (that conversation may've been your eulogy).
