A/N: This is my first fic for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition Season 10.

Team: Chudley Cannons

Position: Keeper: A horseshoe – Write about someone running out of luck.

Thunk. Scrape. Thunk. Scrape. Thunk. Scrape.

Neville wiped the sweat from his forehead, no doubt smearing his already filthy skin with even more dirt. The pile of weeds that grew larger with every dig of his hoe was worth all this hard work.

The sound of a throat clearing behind him made him spin rapidly on his heel, his grip tightening on the handle of his hoe. His gardening tool was not made as a weapon, but it would do in a pinch.

When he faced the intruder to his garden plot, though, he realised he had no reason to worry. The being stood only three feet high, his hands lifted in a sign of surrender. Besides, Neville doubted that anyone with such an innocent face was capable of any type of ferocious attack.

The interloper was one of the most peculiar individuals Neville had ever laid eyes on. His long golden hair seemed to defy gravity as it stuck straight up into the air. His skin had a slight glitter to it, as if the stars had fallen down from the sky and stuck themselves to it. His eyes were the same golden colour as his hair, and they contained such a spark of liveliness that Neville would not have been surprised if he had started jumping and cavorting around the garden. He was wearing a white suit that was made of a fabric that he couldn't place. It had a strange shine to it, the same shine that a soap bubble had when the light hit it. The fabric also seemed to repel dirt and dust, as the suit was completely spotless even though the stranger was literally standing in a dirt patch.

Neville shook himself, realising he had been staring for far too long. Not forgetting his manners, he held out his hand. "I'm Neville Longbottom."

The intruder squinted at his outstretched hand with a look of utter confusion. Neville pulled it back while he felt his face flush. Whatever this being was, his customs apparently did not include shaking hands.

"I'm Felix!" exclaimed his uninvited guest, moving past his confusion rapidly. "I'm the Fairy of Luck," he continued nonchalantly, as if it was the most common thing to encounter a fairy.

His mood changed very quickly once again. A disappointed pout formed on his lips and his eyebrows creased in a sad frown. "Don't you know what's happening tonight?" he asked, a hint of a whine in his voice.

Of course Neville knew. It was only the biggest event of the entire year in the Kingdom of Gryffindor. "It's the Fall Harvest Ball," he said, slightly quizzical as to how this tied into the conversation and how Felix even knew about it in the first place.

"Ten points to Neville!" Felix said happily, clapping his hands. "Obviously it's the ball tonight. So why are you in your garden instead of getting ready?"

"Oh, I wasn't planning to go," said Neville. "I have to finish hoeing this patch, and that will take me at least half an hour. By the time I'm finished, it will be too late."

Almost before he was done talking, Felix snapped his fingers. To Neville's shock and horror, his hoe handle cleanly split in half, and the head fell off into the dirt with a clunk.

Felix shrugged with a smirk on his face. "Well, I guess there's nothing left to do but go get ready for the ball. If you do decide to go, I can promise you good luck until midnight."

Neville rebelled a little at the idea of actually going, but Felix was right. He really didn't have any excuses any more.

Neville quickly took a deep, calming breath before stepping into the ballroom. As expected, the spacious room was filled with people. Neville was thankful that he had arrived on time, so that he blended into the background of new arrivals. He supposed he could thank Felix for that.

He took a few moments to admire the decorations spread tastefully across the room, before making his way to the refreshments table to take up residence with his back to the wall.

Truth be told, Neville wouldn't have minded dancing except for the fact that he couldn't dance. At all. The last time he had tried he ended up with a sprained wrist and a large bruise on his dignity. After that he decided that, for the good of his sanity and health, he would swear off dancing.

So he stuck by the wall, watching the dancers and occasionally sneaking a snack from the table at his side.

Suddenly, he felt his leg give a jolt as someone tripped over his foot. He barely had time to register what was happening, but his arm shot out automatically to keep the person from falling. "I'm so sorry!" he exclaimed, before adding "Your Highness," as he realised he was supporting Princess Ginevra, seventh child of King Arthur and Queen Molly.

"Oh, don't start with that," she said, waving her hand dismissively. "Please call me Ginny."

"Alright, Ginny." The name felt foreign passing his lips, but he pressed on, delighted at the smile that blossomed on her face. She was very pretty, with flowing red locks and her short yet elegant golden ball gown. But that smile, he was a goner for that smile. He would do anything within his power to get a repeat performance.

"It was lucky you caught me, otherwise this would have been a lot more embarrassing," she said, breaking him out of his thoughts.

"Yeah, lucky," he breathed. His cheeks flushed red when he realised his hand was still on her waist, and he quickly snatched it back.

"Dance with me?" Ginny asked. Neville was surprised at her bluntness. Usually people didn't just go around asking him to dance.

"Uh, y-yes," Neville stammered, immediately forgetting his carefully constructed excuse for this exact scenario when she flashed him another one of those breathtaking smiles.

He took her proffered hand and walked with her to the dance floor, hoping she couldn't feel the sheen of nervous sweat on his palm. He was beginning to regret how easily persuadable he was.

Neville almost gasped in shock when they began to dance. His feet seemed to know the steps, casually slipping into the rhythm and avoiding crushing any toes, which had never happened before.

The evening sped past after that, a blur of dancing, talking, and laughing with Ginny. Neville was pleasantly surprised when she didn't leave his side after their initial meeting.

They were at an intermission to their dancing, taking a stop by the refreshments table.

Neville was just pouring a glass of wine for Ginny when everything took a sharp turn for the worse. He wasn't sure at first what had changed, until he realised that the clock was striking. At the twelfth strike, his hand slipped over the glass, and some wine splashed over the edge of the pitcher, splattering onto Ginny's pristine ball gown. The luck that Felix had given him was gone.

"I'm so sorry!" Neville exclaimed, hastily passing her a serviette.

"Don't apologise," Ginny said, laughing and tracing the edge of the stain. "I think the pattern adds a little something to the dress, don't you?"

Neville could only look at her in shock. How was she not mad at him?

His shock turned into panic, however, when she grabbed his hand and once again led him onto the dance floor. He couldn't survive the humiliation of dancing without the aid of his good luck.

Ginny's hand suddenly felt like a cage, one that he couldn't escape because he didn't have the key. He winced when he stumbled a little through the crowd, and his shoe scraped the back of her heel. He hadn't even started dancing and already he was making a fool of himself.

"Ginny," he said, just loud enough that he could be heard over the opening strains of the waltz. Finally able to pull his hand from her grip, he continued, "I apologise, but I have to take my leave now. Please don't be offended."

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and made a beeline for the exit, desperate to release the anxiety that was ballooning in his chest. He didn't look over his shoulder, but if he had, he would have seen her watching him leave, confusion and disappointment etched onto her features.

The repaired hoe scraped through the dirt with much more ferocity this time, as Neville reflected on that disastrous evening. Why had he thought going to the ball was a good idea? He had been extremely rude to the princess, and he could probably never show his face at the palace again.

The sound of a throat clearing caused him to spin around, and he half expected to see Felix again.

Instead, he was greeted by a familiar smile that made him a little weak in the knees. "Pri - Ginny? What are you doing here?" he sputtered through his surprise.

"At the ball, you told me all about your garden. This region of Gryffindor has the best soil, so I thought maybe I could find you here."

His heart leapt at her words. She remembered what they had talked about, and she had gone to a surprising amount of trouble to find him. But then his hope fell like a punctured balloon. What could she possibly want with him after he had ruined her dress and practically run away from her?

He opened his mouth to say as much, but Ginny stopped him with a raised hand. "Neville, I don't care. I don't care if you're a farmer, I don't care that you're clumsy, and I really don't care about any other excuse you can come up with. I had a good time at the ball, and I know that you did, too." Her voice became softer, as if she was a little hesitant to say the next bit. "I felt a definite spark between us that night, and I just wanted to know if you felt it, too?"

Her eyes rose to meet his, and his breath caught at the hope that shone out of them. How could he say no to those hypnotising brown eyes?

He nodded, unable to process how to form words. He couldn't believe Ginny had chosen him, a virtual nobody compared to the nobles and princes she could have chosen. All those thoughts flew from his head, though, as she took a step forward to close the distance between them. He tentatively put his arms around her waist, and a grin broke out when she reciprocated by winding hers around his neck.

"Maybe I don't need luck," he whispered, before closing the gap and claiming her lips.