Mark Reads ‘Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire’: Chapter 1

In the first chapter of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Rowling immediately makes it apparent that it’s time for things to change. She jumps into a new narrative style to open the book and, for once, we don’t join the Dursleys at the beginning of her story. Intrigued? Then it’s time for Mark to read Harry Potter.

CHAPTER 1: THE RIDDLE HOUSE

Many days ago, the first inkling of desire crept into Mark’s brain. Upon finishing The Prisoner of Azkaban, the spark was lit. Should he continue to read more? Should he wait? Should he preserve his curiosity for later days?

The large, dictionary-sized book sat on his desk and stared at him as he watched the movie version of the third book. Would he start the book immediately afterwards? No, he thought. I need a break from this world. I need to wait.

After the comment party finished, Mark sat at his desk, tired and overwhelmed by the response. What have I gotten myself into? he thought. Then he glanced over at his set of Harry Potter books. The Goblet of Fire stared back at him.

He reached over and pulled out the fourth book in the series. It was heavy; clearly, this was a much larger book than all the three before them. Was this actually a dictionary? He opened the cover and scanned through the Contents. They took up four and a quarter pages this time around. Thirty-seven chapters? He tried to do the math to determine how long it would take him to read the book, but numbers escaped them. He instead looked a few titles. ‘Bagman and Crouch’? ‘The House-Elf Liberation Front’? ‘Priori Incantatem’? As always, it seemed to be gibberish. He didn’t understand what any of the titles meant.

He closed the book and set the stone-like object back down on the desk. It made an audible thud! when it hit the wooden surface. I have to read all that? he thought. There wasn’t enough time in the day to read this chapter-by-chapter.

The next morning, he came into the office and The Goblet of Fire was still in the same spot on his desk. He sat down, pulled out his laptop, and went through the same morning routine he went through each day: plug in, get coffee, log in, drink coffee, start working, drink more coffee.

And the book sat there. Staring at him.

His coffee ran out. He finally grabbed the book and opened it to the first page. ‘The Riddle House,’ it said. Wait. As in Tom Riddle, from the second book?

He closed the book briefly, his finger still in between the pages. He wasn’t going to post another review until Monday and he had time this weekend to read. Shouldn’t he wait?

He opened the book again, reluctantly, and read the first line. “The villagers of Little Hangleton still called it, ‘the Riddle House,’ even thought it had been many years since the Riddle family had lived there.”

Wait a second, he thought. What does this have to do with Harry? And why isn’t this a cold open on Harry at the Dursley’s house? Perhaps this is just a story he’s being told. Maybe he is visiting the town of Little Hangleton with the Dursleys?

Despite that he was out of coffee and had many things to complete that day (since it was his last full day in the office), Mark continued to read about the Riddle House. It was confirmed on the next page that the Tom Riddle, of Chamber of Secrets fame, actually died in that house of mysterious causes with his parents.

Goddamnit, he thought with irritation. He was only three pages into the fourth book and he couldn’t stop. He had shit to do today and he was reading Harry Potter.

And he kept reading. He liked the way Rowling depicted small town gossip. Having lived in a small community himself, Mark appreciated how Rowling used the villagers to pass the paranoid, bizarre theories about how the Riddles died. All of their scorn, judgment, and gossip was directed towards one man: The Riddle’s gardener, Frank Bryce.

At this point, Mark wondered how this related at all to the greater story, besides providing another clue to Tom Riddle’s past. Why was Rowling now focusing on the story of Frank Bryce and his lonely life tending to the Riddle’s garden, many years after they had died?

Mark stopped reading and glanced at his empty coffee cup. He flipped a few pages ahead; there were only ten more until the next chapter. He could wait for more coffee.

He learned that Frank Bryce was bullied by the townsfolk, who mistakenly believed that Frank had actually killed the Riddles all along. This only fueled his bitter cynicism and led him to mistakenly believe that one night, when he saw a light on up in the Riddle’s old house, that it was simply another generation of bullies messing with him because of what the townsfolk had told him.

Completely hooked on the narrative, Mark pressed on. Frank walks up to the Riddle House, prepared to fight some local hooligans, but he’s surprised by what he finds.

The first line of dialogue that Frank overhears: “There is a little more in the bottle, My Lord, if you are still hungry.”

‘My Lord”???? Oh my god, Mark thought. Oh fuck. Is he back? Has he returned?

It’s confirmed. The man referred to as ‘My Lord’ then speaks to the first man and calls him…Wormtail.

It’s Peter Pettigrew! Mark thought. Oh shit. He returned to Voldemort! Voldemort is alive? But why?

Mark continued reading as Frank overhears a disturbing conversation. Lord Voldemort has some sort of “plan” in place, but wants to wait until after the Quidditch World Cup to begin executing it.

Mark paused. He really liked when books and stories and films gave answers in this manner at the beginning of the narrative. But he also wanted coffee. He only had seven more pages, though, so he continued reading.

Mark thought it was funny that Frank, a Muggle, thought Voldemort and Pettigrew were speaking in some foreign code every time they used wizarding words. But Mark was worried that Frank was going to become a victim of Voldemort’s powers if he stuck around any longer. But at the sametime…Frank was technically providing Mark with more of the story. So….oops.

Mark learned that Voldemort had a plan to use Harry Potter in…something. What that something is, he had no idea. Then Pettigrew mentions the murder of Bertha Jorkins and Mark was confused. Great. What is going on? he thought.

He learned that Jorkins worked at the Ministry of Magic almost immediately after this, but it still didn’t answer any of his larger questions. And besides Voldemort’s brief mention of wanting to use Harry in some “plan,” he was still confused how this related to anything.

Mark didn’t really get many more answers, because Voldemort then said, “Be quiet…I think I hear Nagini….”

Nagini? Who the fuck is Nagini? Mark thought.

Mark read on and learned that a giant snake was in the Riddle House. Not only that, but Frank overhears Voldemort speak in Parseltongue to the snake, who reveals that there is a man standing in the hallway listening to their conversation.

Oh fuck, Mark thought. This is no good.

Frank, unaware of who he is talking to, actually demands to speak to Lord Voldemort’s face. (Voldemort had been turned around.) That’s when Voldemort does just that and then blasts Frank with his wand.

And then, the final line of the chapter: “Two hundred miles away, the boy called Harry Potter woke with a start.”

Good lord, Mark thought. He closed the book and stared at his empty coffee cup. Get some coffee, he told himself. But shouldn’t he write his review? He was unsure how he was going to talk about this.

He got coffee instead.

The next day, Mark was in a car, driving up to San Francisco, the first chapter of Goblet of Fire on his mind. Should I just do a straight review this time? he thought. He looked at the time; they’d left later than he planned to, but he figured he would have time that night to maybe get a start on the review of the book. I’ll figure it out, he told himself.

He didn’t open the book that day. And the next day, while riding around San Francisco, Berkeley, and Oakland, eating food and visiting friends, he didn’t open the book again. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to. It was an issue of time. There was no time to review anything.

And he didn’t have any ideas. That might have been part of it, but he wasn’t quite ready to deal with that. He’d just blame it on his lack of time.

The next morning, he woke up at 5am and was on the road a half hour later, headed to Yosemite. Perhaps I could take notes and come up with an outline in the car, he thought.

It didn’t happen. There was hiking, picnicking, and lots and lots of driving. But Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire never even left his backpack. He hadn’t opened his laptop in days. And Monday was rapidly approaching, quicker than he would have liked it, and he still had no idea what he was going to write.

He sat in the passenger seat of a boat-like rental car, his friend driving while he reflected on the weekend. He was moving far away, hundreds of miles from Los Angeles, and he’d just signed his lease for his new apartment in Oakland. He’d ridden his bike all over the Bay Area and conquered a deceptively difficult hike to the top of Vernal Falls in the Yosemite Valley. And throughout this journey, he’d not found a single inspiration to review the opening journey of the Goblet of Fire.

Journey. The word resounded in his mind. It was a start. He’d been on this journey over the course of three days, his life set to begin anew in a new place, and this book was beginning anew, too, in a new place and a new time.

Maybe it was time for him to tell a story, separate from the narrative of the rest of his reviews, to open a new set of writings on a new book.

It was time to begin again.