Mark Reads ‘Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban’: Chapter 13

In the thirteenth chapter of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, we experience something that really hasn’t been around this entire book: happiness. BUT WAIT GUESS WHAT IT IS RUINED. Intrigued? Then it’s time for Mark to read Harry Potter.


Guys, I am just waiting for chaos. This is simply too much.

the tension, it burns.

Harry gets to try out his Firebolt broom (and brings a grumpy Ron along with him) during Quidditch practice. I thought it was pretty funny that Madam Hooch was completely taken by the sight of the new broom, so much so that Wood had to remind her to give it back.

This chapter definitely serves a much-needed purpose: a break from the doom-and-gloom of parental murder and the dementors. And look, like half of my movie and book collection at home is full of some of the most depressing shit known to me, and I still enjoy a momentary bout of happiness, ok?

The entire chapter, this is how I felt:

When was it going to happen? When was this moment of joy going to end?

  • It was better than he’d ever dreamed. The Firebolt turned with the lightest touch; it seemed to obey his thoughts rather than his grip; it sped across the filed at such speed that the stadium turned into a green-and-gray blur; Harry turned so sharply that Alicia Spinnet screamed, then he went into a perfectly controlled dive, brushing the grassy field with his toes before rising thirty, forty, fifty feet into the air again–

So….he’s going to crash, right?

  • They were halfway toward the castle when Harry, glancing to his left, saw something that made his heart turn over–a pair of eyes, gleaming out of the darkness.

    Harry stopped dead, his heart banging against his ribs.

    “What’s the matter?” said Ron.


  • A beam of light fell across the grass, hit the bottom of a tree, and illuminated its branches; there, crouching among the budding leaves, was Crookshanks.

Oh. That’s not so bad.

The Quidditch match against Ravenclaw is the same for me: after every positive sentence or thought, my face grimaced in anticipation.

  • Harry kicked off into the air and the Firebolt zoomed higher and faster than any other broom; he soared around the stadium and began squinting for the Snitch, listening all the while to the commentary, which was being provided by the Weasley twins’ friend Lee Jordan.

My face:

  • Harry urged the Firebolt forward as they rounded the Ravenclaw goal posts and Cho fell behind. Just as Katie succeeded in scoring the first goal of the match, and the Gryffindor end of the field went wild, he saw it–the Snitch was close to the ground, flitting near one of the barriers.
  • Ravenclaw was pulling back; they had now scored three goals, which put Gryffindor only fifty points ahead–if Cho got the Snitch before him, Ravenclaw would win. Harry dropped lower, narrowly avoiding a Ravenclaw Chaser, scanning the field frantically–a glint of gold, a flutter of tiny wings–the Snitch was circling the Gryffindor goal post–

    Harry accelerated, eyes fixed on the speck of gold ahead–but just then, Cho appeared out of thin air, blocking him–

    “HARRY, THIS IS NO TIME TO BE A GENTLEMAN!” Wood roared as Harry swerved to avoid a collision. “KNOCK HER OFF HER BROOM IF YOU HAVE TO!”

  • He accelerated; so, many feet below, did Cho. He was winning, gaining on the Stitch with every second–then–

    “Oh!” screamed Cho, pointing.

    Distracted, Harry looked down.

    Three dementors, three tall, black, hooded dementors, were looking up at him.


  • Something silver-white, something enormous, erupted from the end of his wand. He knew it had shot directly at the dementors but didn’t pause to watch; his mind was still miraculously clear, he looked ahead–he was nearly there. He stretched out the hand still grasping his wand and just managed to close his fingers over the small, struggling Snitch.

Wait, that’s it? They won??? And Harry didn’t break half his body?

What about the dementors?

  • “The dementors didn’t affect me at all!” Harry said excitedly. “I didn’t feel a thing!”

    “That would be because they–er–weren’t dementors,” said Professor Lupin. “Come and see–“

    He led Harry out of the crowd until they were able to see the edge of the field.

    “You gave Mr. Malfoy quite a fright,” said Lupin.

    Harry stared. Lying in a crumpled heap on the ground were Mafloy, Crabbe, Goyle, and Marcus Flint, the Slytherin team captain, all struggling to remove themselves from long, black, hooded robes. It looked as though Malfoy had been standing on Goyle’s shoulders. Standing over them, with an expression of utmost fury on her face, was Professor McGonagall.

    “An unworthy trick!” she was shouting. “A low and cowardly attempt to sabotage the Gryffindor Seeker! Detention for all of you, and fifty points from Slytherin! I shall be speaking to Professor Dumbledore about this, make no mistake!”

So. They weren’t Dementors, Harry won without getting hurt, and Malfoy and his bully friends are actually getting in trouble for being terrible people????

  • It felt as though they had already won the Quidditch Cup; the party went on all day and well into the night. Fred and George Weasley disappeared for a couple of hours and returned with armfuls of bottles of butterbeer, pumpkin fizz, and several bags full of Honeydukes sweets.

(There’s a brief moment where Ron makes Hermione cry, but let’s not interrupt our good feelings for this.)

  • Ron was sitting up in bed, the hangings torn from one side, a look of utmost terror on his face.

    “Black! Sirius Black! With a knife!”


    “Here! Just now! Slashed the curtains! Woke me up!”


  • “Don’t be ridiculous, Weasley, how could he possibly have gotten through the portrait hole?”

    “Ask him!” said Ron, pointing a shaking finger at the back of Sir Cadogan’s picture. “Ask him if he saw–“

    Glaring suspiciously at Ron, Professor McGonagall pushed the portrait back open and went outside. The whole common room listened with bated breath.

    “Sir Cadogan, did you just let a man enter Gryffindor Tower?”

    “Certainly, good lady!” cried Sir Cadogan.

    There was a stunned silence, both inside and outside the common room.

    “You–you did?” said Professor McGonagall. “But–but the password!”

    “He had ’em!” said Sir Cadogan proudly. “Had the whole week’s, my lady! Read ’em off a little piece of paper!”


  • “Which person,” she said, her voice shaking, “which abysmally foolish person wrote down this week’s passwords and left them lying around?”

    There was utter silence, broken by the smallest of terrified squeaks. Neville Longbottom, trembling from head to fluffy-slippered toes, raised his hand slowly into the air.