Harry burrows further into the thick, soft duvet, curling an arm over his stomach. He spares a thought for what he hopes has taken root and focuses on his husband. "Oh." He frowns. "Is there a book of etiquette on being consort?" And then, as he goes on, his voice begins to get angry. "A book to tell me what I’m expected to do socially and why I have "mages-in-waiting’ and what other surprises are sitting there, right around the corner, to blindside me? Because you aren’t doing that and Hermione can’t."