Of all of Harry Potter's nightmares, not one had been about fire. They either made no sense whatsoever or were cold, cold and dark and lonely and terrifying, Voldemort tugging at that part of Harry's soul which he owned. Harry might awake drenched in sweat, but never because of heat. He never smelled the cloying scent of burning heavy in the air nor felt ashes falling on his cheek, lighter than snowflakes.

So it was a kind of morbid curiosity that made Harry wake now without screaming, without jerking away from the unfamiliar softness coating a hard ground that was definitely not his hammock. He opened his eyes slowly, unsurprised to find that everything blurred into a wall of varying shades of gray, something redder, bloodier in the distance. Groping for his glasses, he found them roughly where they should have been and popped them on. The scene around him certainly looked like something that would have fit in his nightmares, only it was entirely unfamiliar and flecked with ash. Frowning, Harry sat up and tried to wipe his glasses off with his shirt, only succeeding in smearing everything to a more transparent film.

Scrambling to his feet, Harry's survival instincts kicked in. He reached for the hawthorne but of course found no wand. He only had himself in completely unfamiliar territory, what looked like a war zone.

Harry cursed under his breath, feeling something inside him start to vibrate with panic. No Ron, no Hermione, not even bloody Draco. Just... Katniss. Other people, too. Gale, he thought the one bloke's name was. But the others were strangers to him.

So it was to Katniss he made his demands. "What the hell?"