OK... Time to tackle the ultimate weird pairing... I read this in a parody and I was just dying to try this.

WHOMPING WILLOW/FLYING FORD (Le gaspeth! O.O)

Alliterations! Weee!

This story was written by Sueslayer2, and I don't own Harry Potter or anything else mentioned in this story. If I did, I'd be filthy stinking RICH. Oh, and Luna Lovegood would kill Voldemort.

So the oldest of Wizard legends say:

Everything, even the inanimate, has life.

Everything blessed with life has consciousness and soul...

And if the Wizards don't notice, all the better.

Really, he was just lonely. He sat there, all day every day. He wanted to get up and see something new. No one came by just to say hello.

And so, over the years, he became bitter. Sad. He became so certain that he did not deserve the attention, that he began lashing out at any who came by.

Yes, we are talking about the Willow. He isn't really a Whomping Willow, he's more of a weeping one.

There is another who is lonely. Blessed with the freedom of flight, she soars across the sky like no other of her kind can. Even the company of wizards as strange as the Weasleys, however, isn't very fun when none of them realise you're actually there.

Then, one day, she became tangled in his branches.

She was left hanging there, in the thrashing tree. Nothing to do but to say hello.

Hello, she said in the language that all beings, at least those who know how to listen, can understand.

A torrent of ancient words was her only reply. So she swapped to the older dialect.

Go away, the tree told her. Depart! Get out of my branches and leave.

I cannot, she said. I am stuck. I'm sorry if I am intruding on you.

The tree stopped thrashing. You are... sorry?

I am, she replied. Why would I not be?

No wizard cares for the Whomping Willow, he said.

But I am not a Wizard, she replied, laughter bubbling in her words. I am a little toy.

As am I, he replied.

What's it like being a tree? She asked him. Being tall and strong, standing among your own.

Lonely, the tree replied. No one comes to say hello, talk to me. No one but wizardlings here. The other trees are but saplings. They don't speak as much. You fly... what is that like?

Well... she paused a moment. It's lonely, too. They're wizards. They only really keep me around as a curiosity, and they don't listen. Sometimes, though, I get to fly over the woods at night, and that's beautiful. The air is fresh, and the stars are brilliant. This doesn't seem like such a bad place for a tree. The sun is warm, the air is sweet.

I suppose not, said the tree.

Encouraged, she continued. And you probably get a wonderful view of the stars from here.

I do, he replied, but I do not look very often.

A gentle rain started to fall. Oh no! she said. I'll rust!

You will not, said the Willow. He spread his leaves and bent his branches until she was shielded from the rain. His movements were gentle, and though his bark was rough, she did not receive a scratch.

Thank you, she told him.

It... is not a problem, he replied.

The two sat in silence for a moment. The sound of the rain is beautiful, she thought.

... I suppose it is, the tree answered.

Tell me about what's here, she said. What's the forest like?

The forest is vigorous, began the tree. The trees whistle and rustle and shake their leaves. The little birds sing and make their nests in the branches of the other trees. The lake is calm until what sleeps in it comes out to play. The half-giant in the cabin over there, here he gestured with a branch, cares for the forest and the animals in it.

That sounds peaceful, she told him.

It is, he replied with a slightly bitter laugh, until I thrash and knock the wizardlings off their feet and send the birds panicking into the skies.

Why do you do that? She asked.

I hate them. They cut off my branches and they cut down my brothers and sisters to build their school. She could hear the anger rising in her voice.

That was years ago, she told him. The wizards who did that are long gone. These little wizard children are less that way. Besides, how can you expect them to come and make friends, or even for the other trees to talk to you, if you hurt them every time they try?

The tree was silent as she continued. If you let your branches hang still for a day or so, a week, maybe, a little bird might nest in them. Then you would have a friend, and she would sing to you and chatter on all day.

I will try... because you are my friend. The tree's voice softened.

Thank you, she replied.

As she was fetched out of the tree by Mr. Weasley, the Willow watched.

Will you come back? he asked.

Every chance I get, she called back to him.

The Willow rustled softly as he watched her go. Suddenly, he didn't feel so lonely.