He had
almost made it through a full season of his retirement without losing his mind.
Finn knew, deep down,
deep deep down, that hanging up his broomstick had been for the best. He had a young family to watch grow, he'd been playing for a decade, and he'd won his cups. He was famed internationally, and he had the rest of his life to do whatever the hell he wanted, because he was just that. Damn. Good.
So
why on Earth was he ready to pull his bloody hair out?
"Joy!" he called over his shoulder, digging through the kitchen cabinets. It had taken some adjusting, but he'd
thought he'd gotten the hand of helping with the groceries, and the dishes, and the cleaning, and whatever else have you, but it seemed like since they'd dismissed the maid (as the two came from muggle backgrounds and house-elves were just
creepy) because Finn did not like waking up to another woman doing all the housework that they could do themselves, they'd fallen out of any sort of routine. Finn hated admitting fault or a need for
help, but with the mess in the kitchen and the lack of food, it was starting to feel like he was a bachelor again, only this time with four loud mouths to feed.
And
that wasn't counting their dogs.
"Joy! We've got nothing to eat!" he shouted again, leaning over the counter in the kitchen to send his voice down the hallway.
