April 8, 2062

The rising sun was beautiful as Angelina stared out of the window. She set down her cup of coffee on George's bedside table. He was sleeping in the hospital bed. She looked at his face and it was almost completely devoid of wrinkles, despite how much he smiled throughout his life. In fact, he was smiling now. Angelina had assumed he was having a dream, possibly one about the day they were married or the day Fred was born. Or maybe he was thinking about the mischief he got into with his twin.

Room 410 at St. Mungo's had become her home for the past month, ever since her husband George had been admitted for very mysterious causes. He had just come back from the States (another Weasley's Wizard Wheezes had opened in Salem) and he fell ill. They had no idea what was wrong with him. He had no fever, no marks, and no infections. He was just very tired. And George spoke to that fact. He slept most of the time these days and when he was awake he ate and he spoke about his grandchildren and his memories of Fred then he'd fall back asleep once more.

Just now, her husband stirred in bed. Angelina walked over from the window to sit beside him. She eased into the chair; her bad back (probably multiple years of Quidditch to blame) always throwing out at the slightest wrench.

"Ange, my angel?" George asked. His eyes were barely open.

"Yes, George? You hungry, darling?" Angelina asked. She got up to get some Jell-O, a Muggle food that required very little chewing.

"No, Angelina, sit. I'm fine," he said.

"Okay," she said. She placed her hand on the bed and he grabbed it. He gave it a tight squeeze.

"When did you realize it?" he asked. Angelina looked at him. She knew what he meant.

"When I realized that we were dating? Or when I realized that I loved you? Because they happened around the same time," she clarified.

"Tell about the moment," George said. His eyes were closed, but he continued listening.

"Well," Angelina started:

October 20, 2002

Angelina had woken up in a bad mood. Quidditch season had recently ended which meant, as an announcer, she was out of a job. That meant one thing: job searching.

That realization prompted her to pull the covers over her head and pray to Merlin for sleep. Then she took a deep breath and… smelled smoke.

Angelina just knew her apartment had to be on fire. She grabbed her wand on her nightstand and catapulted from her bed. She ran to the kitchen and saw there was a light haze of smoke in the kitchen and adjoining TV room. She searched for the inferno but the only thing mildly fiery she could find was a mop of red hair that stood in front of the stove.

George's back was to Angelina and he appeared to be chopping something. He raised his wand and all of the smoke began to clear from the air.

"What in the bloody hell are you doing?" Angelina asked. She looked around the kitchen and it was a mess. Flour was spilt on the counter and some was flaking down to the linoleum floor. Red food dye stained her sink and a dirty mixing spoon was placed, without care, on her autographed picture of Gwenog Jones. She saved the picture first.

"Tergeo," she cast at the picture and the crude oil-like substance vanished from the photo.

"Well I didn't quite expect you to sleep until four o'clock in the afternoon," George said.

"Yeah, well, I'm depressed. I have no job," she said. She grabbed a bowl and got down a box of cereal.

"No, no, no, no," George chastised. He grabbed the box from her and placed it back in the cabinet.

"I'm hungry," Angelina pouted.

"Well that's good, because I'm making food," George said, "If you didn't notice," he gestured to the mess

"Oh, I noticed," Angelina observed, "but I figured your cooking would be inedible," she said. She pulled out a chair from the small dining table.

"Well these burgers are quite inedible," George said as he dumped the blakened ground beef into the rubbish bin, "But the red velvet cake I fixed you is, in fact edible."

"And you made me a cake, because?" Angelina asked.

"Are you serious?" George asked. He wiped his hands off on his apron ('Kiss The Ginger Chef') and he sat in the chair adjacent to Angelina.

"Yeah," she said.

"You must be depressed, Angelina. It's your birthday and you don't even remember," George said. He shook his head as he got up. He brought the cake from the oven and placed it on the stove. It was even and not at all lumpy. He grabbed a bowl of what Angelina assumed was icing and he began to ice the cake.

"I knew it was my birthday… but how did you?" Angelina asked. She stood and walked toward George.

"You told me in our… fourth year, I do believe. I think I gave you a full day of free, no consequence insults. And my feelings are still a little bruised," he laughed.

Angelina barely remembered that. She remembered the birthday though. She and Fred had spent the whole day at Black Lake (the only time she had ever skipped class). But now it was cming back to her. They had come back to the common room and using her coupon on George, calling him numerous hilarious things and creatively calling him dumb. It was all in good fun though. She was a little taken aback that he remembered this.

By this point, George had cut the cake and he served her a piece. She dug in and it was delicious. He obviously got the baking skill from his mother.

"This cake is delicious, thanks!" Angelina said, spraying crumbs onto her lap.

George chuckled and said, "Anytime. I'll probably end up doing the same thing next year," George smiled.

Angelina didn't realize it until much later, but at that moment she had fallen in love with him.

Present Day

"I knew I was doing something right," George said. He squeezed her hand again, "I have and will always love you, Angelina," he said.

"And you are my heart, George," she said. She figured that that story he just told would be the last one that he heard. She laid her head on his stomach and she cried. She didn't want to but she did. She felt his breathing slow, as his stomach slowed down in it's rising and falling. She felt his hand's grip go slack.

"Fred?" he asked.

Angelina looked up, expecting to see her son walk in, but she saw nothing in the room. It was empty except for the two of them.

"I see Fred, Angelina. I love you," he said. She gripped his hands tight. She wanted to tell him not to go, to stay with her another day, but she knew that would be selfish.

"Go with him, George. I know you missed him," she said as the tears cascaded from her eyes.

George smiled and closed his eyes one final time as he rode into that good night.

I would love to say that Angelina lived to be a one hundred fifty year old witch, who got to enjoy her great-great-great grandchildren, but alas, not everyone is that lucky. Although in a way, she was lucky. Angelina only had to live without her husband for about thirteen hours. She died in her sleep, with a smile on her face. Her last word was, "George."

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That was, quite possibly, the most depressing chapter. In history. Ever. But it had to be done. So I hope y'all liked it. I am definitely doing more "How I Met Your Mother" stories but I might need a new name. Any suggestions? Anyway, I know FanFiction is a place where writers are supposed to post what they feel like, when they feel like, and how they feel like it, and I think that's cool, but I would love to take suggestions from you guys. If you have any (reasonable) requests of anything you want me to write, I will do my best to carry it out. So if you have any suggestions, requests, or even comments about this story, Private Message me or comment on this chapter. Thank you, thank you, thank you, and thank you for sticking with me.