Which was what the hammock was for. He could lie here idly by the hour, going over all the fucked up crap he'd had to endure over the course of his wretched existence. All the while sipping cocktails from a magically-refilling glass. It was a bizarre contrast. But he could almost laugh at it now, marvel at all the things he'd experienced and that he'd somehow managed come through it all alive. He'd flirted with Death a few times, but they'd never gone much further than heavy petting. It was certainly a story to tell. One day, perhaps, maybe he'd write it all down, serialise his life story to give old Lockhart's books a run for their money. It was peaceful enough here, should Harry ever decide to try his hand at being a scribe.