Hermione's skills weren't the problem. Her spell repertoire probably exceeded the combined total of everyone else in her year group. The problem was everything that happened when actual competition began. She became tense during ordinary exams. A real duel would be considerably worse. And she lacked instinctive fighting sense, casting with a precision that, in practice, read as mechanical and therefore predictable.
Tom was genuinely hoping she'd lose the selection round. One instructive failure, delivered clearly, would teach her something about the gap between knowing and doing that no amount of reading was going to close.
Friday evening, Grindelwald reappeared in the learning space after several days of deliberate absence, and he had something specific to share.
"You have a leak on your side." He said it with the mild interest of someone reporting interesting weather. "Vinda just received a letter. Someone tipped us off about the ICW's operation. Time, approximate numbers, the full outline."
Tom was training wandless Patronus casting at the time, and his Patronus responded on his behalf while he concentrated, the enormous animal form turning its head toward Grindelwald as the voice rolled out. "There are always opportunists. That's not unusual."
"If it were an ordinary opportunist, I wouldn't have brought it up." Grindelwald smiled slightly. "Do you know who sent the letter? The British Ministry of Magic. Department of International Magical Cooperation. Bartemius Crouch. The same Bartemius Crouch who nearly became Minister."
"Bartemius Crouch?"
Tom's concentration slipped. The Patronus dipped. "And you're certain it was him?"
"Magical signature, and a signature signature." Grindelwald paused to let that land. "He handed me the most dangerous leverage imaginable over him. If this gets out, his career ends. Azkaban would be the lenient outcome."
"I can't work out his motive. Is he angling for Minister?"
Tom didn't answer immediately. He let the Patronus dissolve, toweled off his face, and climbed up to the seating area. He sat down, worked through it for a moment, then said:
"My instinct is that it's not about power. His son is Voldemort's most devoted follower. Whatever Crouch wants, I think it connects to the son. Leave it alone for now. When this blows over, I'll make contact."
Crouch was a capable man. Tom had always found that combination, genuine ability and a compromising history, particularly useful. Someone with that profile was controllable and effective in equal measure. People with principles, people like Bones or Sirius, were genuinely more trouble, usable only within limits. You couldn't build around them.
If Crouch was genuinely trying to change sides, Tom had no objection to letting Grindelwald receive him.
Saturday. One day before the selection rounds began, the second and third year candidates put themselves through final preparation. In the Room of Requirement, Ginny beat Hermione again.
Ginny fought on instinct in a way that was difficult to train against. She made correct decisions without processing them, her wand responding before any conscious choice had been reached. And the power behind her spells was enough to push Hermione to the edge in any direct exchange.
Hermione, after losing, opened her notebook. Dozens of entries already documented, and she added two more.
"None of that does anything," Ginny said, not unkindly. "You're not going to review your list before every spell."
Hermione finished writing before responding. "I don't have your natural instinct. The only method I have is to catalog every mistake, eliminate them one at a time, and trust that the sum of it eventually becomes improvement."
Then she looked up. "Ginny, it's genuinely a shame you're only in second year. A fifth-year version of you would take the whole tournament."
"What would I do with a championship?" Ginny looked entirely unimpressed. "It's basically children playing pretend. Even if all the year-group champions came at Tom together, he'd handle it without effort."
"You set your bar too high," Hermione said. "Students compete with students. Comparing yourself to someone categorically abnormal helps no one."
Ginny caught the word. "Did you just call Tom abnormal?"
"I did."
Ginny found this entertaining. "Funny. From what I heard, a certain someone spent her entire primary school trying to keep up with him."
"I didn't know he was like this back then. Besides, Muggle academics don't over-rely on raw talent the way magic does. Hard work still counts for more."
"I don't believe that for a second. Tom told me that genuine Muggle scholarship is harder to understand than the most obscure books in Hogwarts. Even if you'd both stayed in the Muggle world, you'd never have caught him."
"Ginny! Are we friends or not!"
The two of them were still squabbling when they returned to the common room and found identical messages from Tom waiting.
[Tom: I won't be watching the selection trials tomorrow. Something requires my attention.]
Neither of them gave it much thought. Tom was always busy.
Sunday.
After breakfast, the Great Hall was rearranged for the first time in six months. One dueling platform, center stage, waiting. Dumbledore announced the selection rounds with his usual warmth, then departed with Fawkes.
The moment he was gone, Tom moved.
He crossed the Apparition boundary at speed, covering distance in a series of rapid jumps, and was gone.