Oh, I can already see this is going to be a problem. I clear my throat and continue, “Okay, just stay away from my moms’ booth because they’ll know you’re not me in two seconds flat. It should be relatively easy to spot—just look for the obnoxiously huge Nox King, and that’s it. The con floor can be a little harrowing. It’s not as big as San Diego or New York, but ExcelsiCon has its own set of problems—”

She cuts me off with an “I’ll figure it out.”

I hesitate because, well, color me shocked but I highly doubt she will. “Should we exchange numbers at least?”

With one hand on the door, she turns to look at me, conflicted. “I don’t think either of us will be hard to find,” she replies, and then says goodbye and heads out.

Leaving me with her jerkface assistant.

Whatever did I do to deserve this torture?

He turns to me and says, “I want to be frank with you because I think you deserve it. You seem like a…nice girl, but if you do anything—”

“Nice,” I echo, not even letting him finish his sentence. “That’s not condescending.”

He blinks. “It was a compliment.”

“Like the weather is nice, or your new pair of shoes are nice? I’m sorry, but I kind of take offense to that word. I’m not nice.”

“I can see that.”

“Good. I’m glad we’re on the same page. Listen, I think we got off on the wrong foot like ten times yesterday. I’m Imogen Lovelace. Nice to meet you, Gryffindor.” I extend my hand cordially. Minerva taught me this move for jerks like him. Extend the hand first, act like the bigger person, grip tightly, and then punch your fist through his sternum—no, wait. That’s a Mortal Kombat move.

To-tal An-ni-hi-la-tion.

He looks down at my hand, then back up at me, then down at my hand again, as if expecting me to replace it with Edward Scissorhands’ finger blades.

I narrow my eyes. “You’re a burnt Hufflepuff, aren’t you.”

He takes the plunge and squeezes my hand firmly, bending a little so we’re eye-to-eye. “How dare you compare me to that marshmallow trash. I’m Slytherin born and bred.”

“Ooh, you missed a good joke there.”

He lets go of my hand and shrugs. “I’ll slither it in some other time.”

I try not to smile, because that was not funny—and, I keep telling myself, think of rule number whatever—but he’s already gathering up the con ID and hotel keycards. I finish putting on my other heel.