Durmstrang +
It was with a muffled thud and a grunt that Santana’s body collided with soft, dry grass and the ground beneath it. Her grip on the trophy loosened weakly as she laid with shut eyes. She knew she shouldn’t have touched it but if she had to endure watching that useless Potter boy receive more adoration for what was little more than a series of fortunate mistakes that lead up to his every victory, she’d have to make herself choke on a broomstick. Feeling a sudden wave of nausea she sits up abruptly and turns her upper half just in time to empty her stomach of its minimal contents then roll away. Where was she? She found herself wondering as she stood, brushing grass off her muscular shoulders and from the front of her uniform.
It looked familiar somehow. The lake was reminiscent of the one at Hogwarts but it wasn’t cold. The grass below her feet stood straight and without glistening drops of water from the sky or puddles. She didn’t dare turn her back to face where she suspected a castle sat, not yet. Not...not now. Gripping her wand tighter in her dominant left hand she instead turns her head towards what was definitely the Hogwarts quidditch pitch, there seemed to be a game happening. Brooms flying around madly and the faint sound of laughter. One thing was for sure, the Durmstrang vessel was not on the lake. Wherever she was, whenever she was...it wasn’t the day she’d left anymore.