DISCLAIMER: Don't listen to the voices. I know they say I own it, but truly, I don't.
A/N: Short one shot that I came up with about six months ago and have been playing with every since. Enjoy!
Wind hissed threateningly as it forced raindrops against the face of the enormous clock that loomed over the stone courtyard set into the sprawling grounds of Hogwarts, an island of cool gray granite and marble in the midst of a sea of warm greens and browns that painted the landscape.
If your gaze cared to slide between the imposing gears that turned smoothly, well-oiled with the magic that simply infused every inch of the castle, you might have noticed the small girl standing behind them. Her face was like that of a nymph, with pronounced yet petite features and an air of kindness, mischief, and innocence exuding from light brown eyes lashed with wisps of flame. Long red hair swirled over her shoulders, engulfing her in the same flames that framed her eyes with every graceful, deliberate movement she made.
At the moment, however, she was moving very little. She snuggled a little deeper into the folds of her cloak, the color of warm, rich hot chocolate and worn to a softness that nothing but time could create. Her hands, wrapped in a pair of light blue mittens, their yarn faded and pale, were clutching a long, thin strip of dark wood, spirals curling ornately around its handle like vines.
The cogs and wheels of the clock ground into motion heavily, and the hands made a leisurely path across the surface of it as another minute tucked itself into History's warm arms, refuge from the Present's harsh bustle. The gaps between the gears frames the courtyard, defining Ginny Weasley's line of vision and creating an effect rather like an old-fashioned, fuzzy, fractured Muggle motion picture. Ginny giggled fondly at the thought of Muggle inventions and her father's keen interest in anything pertaining to those of non-magical blood.
Her mirth died abruptly, however, as she surveyed the scene the clockwork had provided.
A young man with tousled onyx hair and round spectacles that framed large, dark green eyes trudged a path through the layer of snow so thin it looked like morning fog, but resolute to coat the ground even through the drizzle. His black cloak swirled around him in a whirlwind of misery and melancholy, his hands stuffed in its pockets.
Ginny knew that even with Ron's renewed loyalty to him, the Triwizard Tournament was taking a toll on Harry Potter.
She wished profusely that he wouldn't push away everyone but Ron and Hermione. There were so many things she'd like to say to him, so many things she felt they could share.
Harry needed every ally he could get, every friend to support him. The end of the year grew ever-closer, and she had no doubt that his annual confrontation with danger loomed like some sort of bizarre, cruel term exam. It was only a matter of time before Voldemort returned, only a matter of time before Harry would face him. There was an odd certainty, perhaps born of being possessed by the monster that fancied himself a Lord, and Ginny couldn't shake off her worry.
The crescendo of Harry's year would come, like clockwork, but she'd never be able to be there to fight alongside him. She'd be forgotten, pushed aside, and left underestimated. Like clockwork.