In a glass display case at the Museum of Copenhagen, the stick stirred for the first time in three hundred years, where it had been slumbering in silence, waiting for its true master's current incarnation to call upon it.
The Muggles, always eager to dig up the past, had unearthed it at an archaeological site of great significance, but unaware of its true nature, they placed it on display and invented some explanation for its supposed importance— just another relic for other Muggles to admire.
But the stick did not care one whit about what the Muggles did to it while it slept— its only purpose was to assist its master. Strangely enough though, there seemed to be something off about its master, this time around…
For some reason, the God Vessel was calling to it all on her own. The proper runes were inscribed on the Vessel's soul— the whole kit and caboodle— but she was not the master it knew. At least, not yet— but since the Vessel would be filled soon enough, the stick rationalised that it wouldn't matter if it reached the proper hands a few months in advance.
And so… before the museumgoing Muggles' bemused eyes, the stick shed its gnarled wooden exterior, restoring it to its original, gleaming golden form— that of Gungnir, the Surestriking Spear!
The spear began to hum, radiating a brilliant golden light that forced the Muggles nearby to shield their eyes. Then came a sharp crack, and the case burst from within, scattering the floor with a rain of tinkling glass shards, but by the time the museumgoers' eyes had recovered, the spear was gone— and in its place, a round, smoking hole gaped in the ceiling. Shortly afterwards, the Muggles clapped their hands over their ears, as the spear broke the sound barrier with a deafening BOOM, shattering every single window in Copenhagen.
And so, totally unconcerned about the Statute of Secrecy, Gungnir zipped across the North Sea and reached Scotland in record time. It soared over its rolling hills and its jagged peaks, before crashing through the windows of Hogwarts's Hospital Wing and embedding itself deeply in the stone floor at Oleandra's feet.
"Whoops," was the only response she could muster.
It appeared that Gungnir's recalling enchantment was slightly more antiquated than the Sword of the Lake's or the Sword of Gryffindor's. It could not teleport, so to return to its master, it would fly at breakneck speeds through whatever obstacles it might find in its path!
"What's all this commotion about!?" shouted Madam Pomfrey, as she came out running out of her office— only to find Oleandra frozen in place with a golden spear before her and the floor covered in glass shards. "Miss Greengrass, what in Merlin's name happened here!?"
Oleandra gulped. It had been a while since she'd done something so… wildly irresponsible.
…
A few minutes later…
"An entire week!? I've been sleeping for that long?" said Oleandra, aghast. "I'm never going to be able to catch up with all that homework!"
Frankly, homework was the least of her problems. The moment she fell asleep, she would find herself back at the Druid's mercy— and the longer she went without sleeping, the longer it would take her to wake once she found herself on the other side…
"I had to place you in a reparative coma to slow the toxin's progress while Professors Snape and Slughorn figured out what you'd been poisoned with," explained Madam Pomfrey, repairing the shattered window with a wave of her wand. "It took them a while, but they managed to brew an antidote in the end, thankfully— ah, and speak of devil, there he is now."
Oleandra looked to the door, hoping to see Professor Slughorn… but in came Professor Snape, holding a steaming goblet.
Drat.
"I see you've finally awoken," said Professor Snape coolly, placing the goblet on her bedside table. "Drink it all— to the last drop."
The goblet was filled with some sort of purple potion emitting copious amounts of smoke.
"This won't make me sleep, will it?" asked Oleandra, giving the smoke a suspicious sniff.
"It will not," said Professor Snape, his lip curling slightly. "I wouldn't dream of depriving you of the rather… unpleasant, sensation you will experience upon imbibing it."
That sounded very reassuring indeed, but Oleandra took her medicine like a good girl. It tasted rather like… like… like she'd just bitten into a cactus. And now her whole body felt like it was packed with pins and needles.
"Your attackers, describe them to me," said Professor Snape, eyeing her with interest as she gagged on the last drops of the prickly potion. "Miss Davis claims she found you standing at her doorstep, drenched in blood and wearing what she described as 'Oleandra's combat robes.' So, it stands to reason you must have fought with your assassins. And yet, curiously, your roommates, Miss Bulstrode and Miss Parkinson, reported sleeping through the entire encounter… Care to explain?"
It was clear that Oleandra's injuries weren't self-inflicted, and she'd been poisoned with a never-before heard of poison, so it was clear to anyone that she had just been the target of an assassination attempt— on You-Know-Who's orders, naturally— Oleandra had been a thorn in his side for years, now.
What worried Snape the most, however, was that he had not received word of such an assassination attempt. As things currently stood, he was the Dark Lord's closest confidant— Lucius Malfoy had failed to retrieve the prophecy ball and lost one of the Dark Lord's most prized artefacts, while Bellatrix Lestrange had disappointed him more times than he cared to count.
But as the Dark Lord's man inside Hogwarts, how could he have not been informed of an assassination attempt within his own House? And how on Earth had the assassin managed to get in and out of Hogwarts without being seen by anyone other than their target, with the Anti-Disapparition Jinx that covers the entire castle!?
It was all extremely worrisome.
"Er… let's see," said Oleandra haltingly. "He was tall… bearded… Didn't get a good look at his face, really…"
Since she was unable to lie, Oleandra described one of the men she'd crossed blades with— but she wished Professor Snape good luck finding a Muggle who'd been dead for three thousand years…