On the morning of August 1st, Harry woke up early, full of energy. He got dressed, packed his things, and went downstairs. Hermione and Ron were already in the kitchen.
"I was just about to go get you," Ron said. "How'd you sleep?"
"Great," Harry replied. A good night's sleep really did wonders for confidence and focus.
"Breakfast is ready," Hermione said, setting plates on the table.
When they opened the door to leave, they spotted six cloaked figures standing watch at the edge of the square, their wary eyes fixed between Numbers 11 and 13.
"Idiots," Ron muttered.
"Just ignore them," Harry said. "The Invisibility Cloak can't cover all three of us anymore. Ron and I will go first—then I'll come back for you, Hermione."
"Right."
After a few seconds of suffocating darkness and the familiar twisting pull of Apparition, Harry and Ron appeared in a narrow alleyway. They exchanged a quick nod, and Harry Disapparated again to fetch Hermione.
According to the plan, the first phase of their operation would begin here.
The alley was empty except for two large rubbish bins. The first batch of Ministry workers wouldn't start arriving until around eight.
They couldn't impersonate anyone high-ranking—those people were under too much surveillance—but they still needed identities with a little authority. Fortunately, Anne had found just the right candidates.
Hermione checked her watch. "She should be here in five minutes."
Ron draped the Invisibility Cloak over Hermione, while Harry hid behind a locked, graffiti-covered fire door.
Four minutes later came the faint pop of Apparition. A small, silver-haired witch appeared a few feet away, blinking against the sudden sunlight breaking through the clouds. She hadn't even had time to enjoy the warmth before Hermione's silent Stunner hit her square in the chest. The witch collapsed soundlessly.
"Nice shot, Hermione," Ron said approvingly.
He and Harry hurried forward, dragging the unconscious witch behind the fire door, into the darkened lobby of an old theater that had been closed for years.
Hermione plucked a few strands of hair from the witch's head and pulled a small, murky bottle of Polyjuice Potion from her beaded bag. She dropped the hairs in, and the potion shimmered into a light lilac color. Meanwhile, Ron rummaged through the witch's handbag.
"Got it—the Ministry tokens Anne mentioned," Ron said, handing Hermione a few small gold coins stamped with raised letters: M.O.M., the abbreviation for Ministry of Magic. He fished out an identification card and read aloud, "Mafalda Hopkirk, Assistant in the Improper Use of Magic Office. Perfect. The plan says she's sometimes summoned to Umbridge's office, so that'll give you an excuse to be there."
Hermione downed the potion. Within seconds, Mafalda Hopkirk was standing before them, blinking behind square glasses. Harry checked his watch.
"We're running a little late. The bloke from Magical Maintenance should be here any minute."
They propped the real Mafalda safely behind the door and gave her a four-hour dose of Sleeping Draught. Harry and Ron threw on the Invisibility Cloak again, while Hermione—still disguised—waited in plain sight.
Another pop sounded moments later, and a small, ferret-faced wizard appeared in front of her.
"Oh—hello, Mafalda."
"H-hello!" Hermione stammered in a small, timid voice. According to Anne's notes, Mafalda was quiet, nervous, and mild-mannered.
"Stupefy," Harry whispered.
His silent spell wasn't as clean as Hermione's, but it worked—the man slumped to the ground.
Ron and Harry dragged him behind the door and gave him the same four-hour sleeping dose. Hermione reached into his pockets, retrieved a Ministry token, and handed it to Ron, who was already gulping down his portion of Polyjuice Potion. Moments later, the short wizard was replaced by Ron.
"Reg Cattermole!" Harry said, spotting the name stitched on the dark blue work robes. "Yup, that's you."
Ron tugged at the uniform and chuckled. "No wonder these Magical Maintenance lot are so weird! They went on strike once over these robes. It rained inside the Ministry for a whole day after that—ha!"
"Enough chatter," Hermione said. "Let's go find our next target."
They Apparated to the next alley over, where Harry, still under the Cloak, waited behind a door. About ten minutes later, Hermione and Ron returned, both looking slightly out of breath.
"Sorry, Harry," Hermione panted. "He was heavy." She handed him a vial of Polyjuice containing a few short, coarse hairs. "Quick—drink up. You'll need a bigger set of robes."
A few seconds after swallowing, Harry's body stretched upward, his muscles broadening until he stood over six feet tall with a square jaw and a thick beard. He tucked his glasses and the Cloak into his pocket and stepped out to join them.
"Blimey, you're terrifying," Ron said, craning his neck to look up.
"That's because you got shorter, Ron," Hermione said briskly, handing Harry his Ministry token. "Come on, let's move."
The three of them left the alley together, blending into the busy London streets. After walking about fifty meters, they reached a flight of stone steps flanked by two spiked black railings—one marked Men, the other Women.
This was the new public entrance to the Ministry of Magic, as Anne had described in the plan. It looked exactly like an ordinary public restroom.
"See you inside," Hermione whispered. Clutching her bag tightly, she slipped down the stairs marked Women.
Harry and Ron joined a small group of oddly dressed men descending into the tiled underground room that looked every bit like a dingy public lavatory.
"Morning, Reg!" called a wizard in navy robes. He slipped a gold token into a narrow slot on the cubicle door before stepping inside. "Bloody stupid system, eh? As if anyone would want to come in this way. Who do they think's going to show up—Harry Potter?"
He laughed raucously at his own joke. Ron managed a strained chuckle.
"Ha… yeah. Real funny," he said awkwardly, and stepped into the neighboring stall.
Harry met Ron's eyes briefly, then slipped his own token into the slot. The door clicked open.
According to Anne's plan, both of his feet had to go into the toilet bowl. The water didn't soak his shoes or robes—it wasn't real water at all.
"Honestly," Ron muttered from the next stall, "this is disgusting."
Harry took a deep breath, grabbed the flush chain, and pulled.
Instantly, he was whooshed away through a short chute and shot out from the grate of a fireplace, stumbling into the Ministry Atrium.
He scrambled to his feet. The body he wore felt strange—heavier, broader, more powerful.
The Atrium was darker than he remembered.
Once, a gleaming golden fountain had stood in the center, scattering light across polished floors and walls. Now, a massive black stone monument loomed in its place, cold and menacing.
Atop it sat two enormous figures—a witch and a wizard—on ornate thrones, gazing down imperiously at the workers tumbling from the fireplaces.
Carved into the stone base, in foot-high letters, were the words:
MAGIC IS POWER
A sharp blow to the back of Harry's leg made him stumble. Another wizard had just arrived through the same fireplace.
"Watch it, will you—oh! Sorry, Runcorn!"
Harry stiffened and gave a curt nod, his face a mask of cold disdain. The man blanched and scurried away, murmuring apologies.
Albert Runcorn—Head of the Office of Muggle-Born Registration and Enforcement.
Cold. Cruel.
Well connected to the Death Eaters.
And now, at least for the next few hours… Harry Potter was wearing his face