Dear Harry,
I am bludgeoning down our austere wall of the fourth to issue the following bequest:
As you well know, I am a Slytherin. Innumerable Facebook, Quizzilla, and officially licensed Warner Brothers online quizzes have told me so, thus, it must be true.
So, when I ventured forth from my cave-like dwelling to brave a second opening weekend viewing of your most recent film, I made sure to put my best Slytherin foot forward. Draped in elegant fabrics of silver and green, each carefully placed jewel, bauble, and crest all seemed to breathe, like the delicate panting of an over-worked house elf, "I'm better than you."
Mission accomplished.
As I settled down into my only mildly offensive movie theater chair, I sat in an amicable silence, pondering the shame Matthew Perry must feel now that he is no longer the answer to nearly every single pre-movie trivia question. My reverie was brutally interrupted by the manic shrieking of two humanoid creatures (Muggles, most likely), bounding up the aisle with all of the grace of your vile friend Hagrid, after he has been gagged, bound, and intravenously injected with the sweaty combination of mead, fire whiskey, and heroin.