Chapter Text

Chapter 1: Spawned

“Steve.” That's the first word he ‘hears’, but it wasn't spoken to him. It was like instinctual knowledge, a primal download directly into his mind: his Name, and he was male. Just as instinctual was the knowledge that he could punch trees with his bare, blocky fist. Not just hit them, but extract them. Grab a Log and ‘Craft’ it to Four Planks. Craft those same Four Planks into a Crafting Table, and with a single Crafting Table, the limits to his crafting powers were essentially boundless, infinite possibilities from a single Log of a tree he knew he could punch with ease.

He looked around the ‘Cubical’ world. Cubical? Interesting choice of words, Steve thought, and yet Steve just knew the words: Cubical, Trees, Logs, Planks, Crafting Table. The air here felt crisp and clean, smelling faintly of rich soil and something earthy, like pine. Overhead, a perfectly square sun began its slow, deliberate descent, painting the blocky clouds in predictable shades of orange and purple. Every hill, every jagged peak of rock, every vibrant green blade of grass adhered to a strict, perfect grid. It was orderly, predictable, and in a way, profoundly comforting.

He tried a practice swing, his blocky arm a rigid extension of his blocky shoulder. The air whooshed with a satisfyingly pixelated sound. He walked a few paces, the world moving with a precise, almost click-like precision around him. He knew, without knowing how, that he could endure much. He was solid. Unyielding.

Suddenly, a profound, chilling wave washed over him. It was a sensation entirely alien to the logical, predictable world he found himself in. Cold, aching loneliness, deep and pervasive, clung to him like an unexpected shroud. It was quickly followed by a sharp, desperate surge of fear, a raw, primal dread that made his nonexistent stomach clench. It wasn't his emotion, not truly, but it was undeniably present, an unwanted guest in his newly spawned mind. It made him want to build walls, dig deep, and protect. Protect something.

An invisible, magnetic pull began to tug at his very core. It wasn't towards a resource vein, or a safe biome, or a promising cave system. It was towards a vague, distant point, infused with that same unsettling blend of fear and desperate hope. A need. An urgent, unaddressed need. It intensified with every passing second, a faint beacon in the back of his mind. He instinctively balled a blocky fist. Survival was the first law of this land. But this time, it felt like survival for someone else. And the answer was preparing for the destination.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: Of Curves and Cupboards

The world twisted.

One moment, Steve was standing on a perfectly flat plane of grass blocks, the square sun dipping lower in the sky. The next, the ground buckled beneath his blocky feet. The rigid lines of the trees warped into dizzying, fluid curves. The air became thick with unfamiliar scents – exhaust fumes, damp soil, a faint, metallic tang that prickled his senses. Sounds assaulted him: a distant rumble of traffic, the chirping of unseen birds, a high-pitched, childish shriek. His vision swam, the familiar pixelated clarity dissolving into a blurry mess of unexpected angles and textures. He stumbled, his blocky legs struggling to adjust to a ground that wasn't perfectly flat, a sky that wasn't perfectly square.

He landed hard on what felt like a solid, yet irregularly bumpy, surface. Disoriented, Steve blinked, his internal processing struggling to reconcile the new sensory data. He was still undeniably blocky. His hands, when he held them up, were rigid, composed of sharp angles and clean, defined edges. But the world around him… it was an affront to logic.

A tree, its trunk disturbingly round, reached up with slender, curved branches. A patch of green beside him wasn't composed of individual grass blocks, but a sprawling, uneven carpet of slender blades. And the sky… it stretched endlessly, a vast, unbroken dome of blue, with soft, fluffy white clouds that bore no resemblance to the neatly stacked cumulus of his origin. Curves. The very word his mind had supplied in his previous existence now manifested as a jarring reality.

Then, the pull returned, stronger, more urgent than before. It wasn't a vague sensation now; it was a physical, almost painful tug in his chest, pulling him towards a specific direction. And with it, a sudden, absolute, and overwhelming surge of knowledge: He had to go to the house. The house with the perfectly manicured lawn and the neat, ugly hedge. And he had to protect what was inside. Specifically, the cupboard under the stairs.

He didn't question how he knew this. The instruction was as fundamental as knowing how to craft planks. It was an imperative.

He got to his feet, his movements still a little stiff, but his mind clear on its new objective. He was standing on something grey and hard – a ‘pavement’, his new instinctual knowledge supplied. Ahead, a row of identical, non-blocky houses stretched down a street, each with its own peculiar, rounded roof. He could hear voices, muffled but distinctly human, from one of them.

The pull, however, led him to a specific address. Number Four.

He strode purposefully down the pavement, his blocky form an anomaly in the curving world, but his mind laser-focused. He reached the gate, an ornate, metallic curve, and pushed it open. The small garden was excessively tidy, filled with unnaturally bright flowers and perfectly trimmed bushes. And then, the house itself: Number Four Privet Drive. Bland, unassuming, and radiating that same powerful, desperate beacon from within.

His gaze fixed on the front door, and then, inexplicably, dropped. His sight seemed to pierce through the wall, through layers of plaster and wood, until he saw it: a small, dark space, barely big enough for a child. The cupboard under the stairs. And from it, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor of silent, agonizing fear.

Steve took a step forward, his purpose crystal clear. He was here. And whatever was causing that fear, it was about to meet a force it wouldn't understand.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: An Uninvited Guest

Steve’s blocky hand reached for the doorbell, but his ingrained combat instincts, now heightened by the beacon of fear from within, overrode the impulse. He didn't ring bells; he broke obstacles. With a sharp, decisive crack, his fist met the polished wood of the door. The sound echoed unnaturally loud in the quiet suburban street, and a perfect, cubic chunk of oak detached itself from the frame, floating for a moment before snapping into his unseen inventory. The door, now with a gaping, square hole where the doorbell should have been, remained stubbornly shut.

A low growl rumbled in Steve's chest, a sound born of primeval block-world encounters. These were not zombies or skeletons; these were the threats to the entity under the stairs. He knew, with absolute certainty, that they meant direct harm. Flight was not an option. He had been spawned to protect.

He raised his wooden sword, its pixelated edge gleaming dully in the filtered sunlight. It felt light, familiar, an extension of his will. He tried the doorknob. Locked. A single, powerful blow from his wooden pickaxe sent splinters flying, and the lock mechanism tore free with a screech of tortured metal. The door swung inward with a protesting groan.

A blast of stale, oppressive air hit him. The hallway was narrow, cramped, filled with the scent of old carpet and something vaguely unpleasant, like stale food. The bright, fearful beacon from the cupboard under the stairs pulsed stronger now, almost frantic.

From the living room on his right, a shrill, piercing shriek erupted. "Vernon! There's a... a thing! In our house!"

Steve’s head, still rigidly square, swiveled towards the sound. Filling the doorway was a woman with a long, horse-like face, her mouth agape in horror. Behind her, a hulking, purple-faced man with a thick neck blustered forward, his small eyes fixed on Steve’s blocky form.

"What in the blazes—?!" the man roared, his face turning a deeper shade of puce. "Get out! You freak! You—"

But Steve wasn't waiting. He was a creature of action. These were the mobs that had to be dealt with. His goal was the cupboard, and they were in the way. He charged, not aiming for a lethal blow, but to displace, to incapacitate. His wooden sword swept in a low arc, connecting with the man's substantial leg with a dull thwack. Vernon Dursley bellowed, stumbling back into his wife with a surprised grunt, his eyes wide with a mix of pain and disbelief.

The woman shrieked again, falling backwards with an undignified thump. Steve ignored their cries, his focus absolute. He moved past their sprawling forms, his heavy boots thudding on the carpet. The cupboard door was directly ahead, small and unassuming. He could feel the desperate, magical pulse emanating from it, a silent cry for help that resonated deep within his own magically-bound core.

He reached for the door, his wooden sword still clutched in his hand, ready to finish the fight if necessary.

He reached for the door, his wooden sword still clutched in his hand, ready to finish the fight if necessary. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, a strange unease settling in his blocky chest. The fear emanating from within was almost palpable, a raw, desperate thing that made his own protective instincts flare.

He pulled the door open.

The cupboard was… smaller than small. Dark, cramped, and filled with the stale, musty smell of neglect. It was barely big enough for its occupant: a small, thin child, huddled in the corner. His clothes were far too big, his dark hair a mess, and his green eyes, wide and terrified, stared back at Steve with a mixture of fear and a flicker of desperate hope.

Target acquired. Steve's mind supplied, with a sense of grim satisfaction. The source of the fear, the reason for his existence.

But the state of this… room… was appalling. Even his hastily dug dirt hole, with a grass block thrown on top for a ceiling, was a palace compared to this. This was not a living space; it was a prison.

Steve took in the situation with the cold, calculating efficiency of a Minecraft player. The child, a small person, his instincts corrected, was clearly in distress. The other inhabitants of this… house… were undoubtedly the source of that distress. But there was something else, something… wrong with the room itself. A subtle, almost imperceptible hum that resonated deep within Steve’s own magical core.

He knew, instinctively, that the small person couldn't leave. It wasn't a physical barrier, not like a locked door. It was… magic. He vaguely understood this kind of magic. The enchantments he sometimes placed on his tools, the subtle wards that protected his base from mobs. But this was different. This was a prison, a binding.

He knew, with a certainty that chilled him, that the small person had to stay here until… a piece of a person in the small human was gone. The phrase echoed in his mind, alien and disturbing. And the house itself… it was protecting the small person, but only from the outside. Not from the threats within.

And then, the most infuriating piece of knowledge solidified: The woman he had just shoved, the shrill one with the horse face. As long as she remained in this house, the crucial wards that kept the small person safe from greater threats remained active. If she died, those wards would collapse, and the "piece of a person in the small human" would take over, consuming the small person entirely. Killing them, though a solution he instinctively craved for a "hostile mob," was not an option. He would love to. But he couldn't.

Furthermore, while the small person had to be removed from this dreadful cupboard, they couldn't leave the house permanently. This house, for reasons unknown, was like the small person's spawn point. Staying away too long would be dangerous, perhaps even fatal. Yet, it was painfully clear that the small person had to leave the cupboard.

Steve was at an impasse. He couldn’t kill the threats, he couldn’t let the small person leave the house for good, and he couldn’t let them stay in this miserable hole. He lowered his wooden sword, the heavy weight of it suddenly feeling inadequate. This wasn't a fight he could win with brute force alone. This was a puzzle. A twisted, magical puzzle with a terrified child at its center.

He looked at the small person, his blocky face unreadable. The child stared back, his green eyes wide and wary. Steve knew, with the same instinct that told him how to craft a diamond pickaxe, that he had to find a way.

The Dursleys, still tangled in the hallway, began to stir, Vernon groaning. Steve didn't need to turn to know they were preparing for round two. He had to secure the small person first.

He turned his full attention back to the cupboard. It was a prison, yes, but could he make it less of one? Or could he, perhaps, create a better temporary prison within the house that still met the magical constraints?

He didn't speak. He just looked at the small boy, then at the cramped space. And then, a new kind of instinct took over. If he couldn't take the boy out, he would bring the necessary comfort in. Or, perhaps, move the boy within the boundaries of the house's magic, but to a safer, more humane location. He just needed to clear the immediate threat first.

He took a step back from the cupboard, his gaze shifting back to the still-recovering Dursleys. His wooden sword came up again, not for a killing blow, but a strategic one. He couldn't kill them, but he could certainly contain them. Temporarily. And he knew just the material for the job. He reached into his unseen inventory.

With a rapid, almost imperceptible movement, Steve pulled out a dirt block. It materialized in his hand, a perfect, earthy cube. Vernon, bellowing about freaks, was just getting his bulk onto his feet, his wife whimpering behind him. Steve didn't hesitate. With a grunt of effort, he placed the dirt block directly in the center of the hallway, a perfect barrier.

The Dursleys, for all their bluster, stopped dead. They stared at the block of dirt, then at Steve. It was a mere two blocks tall, but to them, it might as well have been a mountain range. Their eyes, wide with confusion and utter disbelief, flickered between the solid, earthen obstacle and Steve's unmoving, blocky form. They tried to step over it, but couldn't; a peculiar, invisible force field, Steve’s own game logic made manifest, prevented them from simply traversing the single block. They were trapped, effectively boxed in by a substance they wouldn't normally give a second thought. Vernon's face began to turn a truly alarming shade of purple as he strained against the unseen wall.

Steve watched them, a grim satisfaction settling in his core. He had successfully rendered the immediate threat inert, at least for now. They weren't harmed, but they weren't getting to the cupboard. His instincts approved.

He turned back to the cupboard, to the small, terrified boy who still huddled within. Harry's green eyes, wide as saucers, tracked Steve's every movement. The boy had witnessed the impossible: a strange, blocky man appear from nowhere, dispatch two adults with uncanny ease, and conjure a dirt block out of thin air.

Steve knelt, his blocky knees making a soft creaking sound. He looked at Harry, a complex mix of protective instinct and strategic calculation warring within him. He needed to get the boy out, but within the house's magical boundaries.

He knew what he wanted to say. You're safe now. I will protect you. You need to come out. The thoughts formed perfectly in his mind, clear and concise. But when he tried to push them past his lips, only a soft, guttural sound escaped. It was like trying to force a square peg into a round hole, his internal mechanics not yet configured for the nuanced complexities of human speech. Yet, it was more than just a grunt. It was a nascent attempt, a breaking of the silent barrier.

A new objective solidified in Steve's mind: Relocate the small person to a safer location within the house. He would deal with the "piece of a person" and the "spawn point" issues later. For now, the boy needed to get out of the cupboard.

Reaching into his inventory once more, Steve pulled out a Book and Quill. The bound book felt strangely smooth in his blocky grasp, the feather of the quill surprisingly delicate. Harry flinched as he presented it, but Steve gently nudged it forward.

With deliberate, pixelated precision, Steve began to write. His blocky fingers, usually so adept at manipulating materials, moved with a surprising grace. The words formed on the page in a clear, blocky script that was undeniably legible.

“SMALL PERSON. SAFE. I AM HERE TO PROTECT YOU. YOU ARE NOT HARMED. COME OUT. WE GO TO BETTER PLACE IN HOUSE. I WILL PROTECT YOU.”

He held out the book, pushing it gently towards Harry. The boy hesitated, his gaze darting from the strange blocky man, to the dirt wall in the hallway, and then to the book with the strange writing. Slowly, tentatively, Harry reached out a trembling hand and took the Book and Quill. His brow furrowed as he read the stark, simple words. He looked up at Steve, a glimmer of understanding, and something else – a fragile spark of hope – replacing some of the raw terror in his eyes. He clutched the book to his chest.

Steve gestured with his free hand towards the cupboard opening, a clear invitation. He waited, his blocky form unmoving, a silent promise of safety.

Harry's gaze dropped back to the Book and Quill. He hesitated, then, with a trembling finger, uncapped the quill. His small hand, guided by an instinct unknown to Steve, wrote clearly, in fluid, looping letters that were starkly different from Steve's blocky script:

"Can't talk? But can you hear me? I'm going to say something like my name just nod if heard it."

Harry looked up, his green eyes fixated on Steve's face. He took a deep breath, and his voice, though small and thin, was clear.

"Harry 'Freak' Potter." Harry said.

Steve, without hesitation, gave a sharp, definitive nod. The knowledge of the boy's name, and the cruel nickname, was instantly assimilated, adding to the data of his new objective. Harry's expression shifted, a mix of profound surprise and a hint of something like relief. It was clear. Steve could hear him.

Harry clutched the book tighter, his gaze never leaving Steve's face, now filled with a new, tentative trust. A sliver of hope, fragile but real, flickered in his green eyes.

"So we'll just ask yes or no questions, sound good?" Harry asked, his voice still small but with a newfound determination.

Another sharp, decisive nod from Steve.

"Okay," Harry continued, looking around his cramped prison, then glancing towards the hallway where muffled grunts and frustrated thumps indicated the Dursleys were still trying, fruitlessly, to overcome the dirt barrier. "Well, there's another room in the house that is practically collecting dust. Dudley's spare room. Would that be better?" Harry asked, his voice low, almost a whisper.

Steve considered the question. A "spare room" sounded significantly better than a cupboard under the stairs. It offered space, light, and more strategic possibilities within the magical boundaries of the house. Another swift, affirmative nod from Steve.

Harry let out a tiny, almost imperceptible sigh of relief. He looked from Steve's unreadable, blocky face to the open cupboard door. His next move was clear.

Carefully, hesitantly, Harry began to inch forward from the depths of the cupboard. His small, thin frame unfolded, muscles stiff from being curled up for so long. He kept his eyes on Steve, a silent plea for reassurance.

Steve waited patiently until Harry had fully emerged from the cupboard, standing shakily in the narrow hallway. The Dursleys, meanwhile, continued their futile attempts to breach the single dirt block barrier. Vernon was huffing and puffing, his face mottled purple, while Petunia emitted a series of frustrated squeaks and whines from behind him. They were entirely preoccupied with the impossible obstacle.

With a swift, precise movement, Steve reached down and harvested the dirt block from the hallway floor. It vanished into his inventory with a soft shwip. The Dursleys, seeing their inexplicable barrier suddenly gone, blinked. Before they could even register the change or take a single step forward, Steve had already moved.

He stepped directly behind Harry, placing himself between the boy and the enraged Dursleys. Then, with another seamless motion, he re-deployed the dirt block, placing it now a few paces further down the hallway, perfectly cutting off the Dursleys' path to the stairs and the rest of the house. The block materialized with a quiet thunk, solid and immovable as ever. Vernon immediately slammed into it with a grunt, his short-lived hope dashed.

Harry, still unsteady, felt Steve's reassuring, if blocky, presence behind him. He looked at the dirt block, then at his relatives, still trapped and sputtering. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips.

Steve nudged Harry gently forward, gesturing with a tilt of his head towards the stairs. Harry understood. This strange, silent protector was taking him to Dudley's spare room. With his new guardian forming a solid, impenetrable wall at his back, Harry, for the first time in years, felt a genuine flicker of safety as he began to ascend the stairs.

They reached the top landing. Harry pointed to a closed door on the right, just past the bathroom. Steve pushed the door open, revealing a room crammed with discarded furniture and a bewildering assortment of broken toys. A rusty bicycle with a missing wheel leaned against a chipped dresser. A headless doll stared blankly from a dusty box. Limbless action figures, crumpled comic books, and deflated sports equipment littered the floor. It was a graveyard of childhood pastimes, a testament to Dudley's destructive tendencies.

Steve's blocky eyes scanned the chaos. Items. Many of them were broken, but some of the materials could be repurposed. He saw splintered wood, stretched fabric, mangled plastic, and dull metal. His mind, always seeking to optimize and craft, began to process the potential. These weren't blocks, but they still held inherent properties.

His primary objective was still the small person's comfort and safety. Harry looked tired, physically and emotionally drained. He needed a proper place to rest, not a cupboard. An improvised bed. Not his usual bed, of course, the one he could snap together from three wool and three wood planks in his own world. That wouldn't work here. This would be more like a sleeping bag, he supposed.

A new, unexpected recipe materialized in his mind, complete with the required materials. It was a foreign concept, this "sleeping bag." He'd never been able to craft one before Harry. He theorized it must be this world's influence, its peculiar, curved knowledge retexturizing itself into usable recipes for his crafting table. Harry's magic, perhaps, was bending the rules of Steve's own existence, integrating new possibilities.

He pulled his crafting table from his inventory. It materialized with a soft thud in the middle of the dusty room, a perfectly cubic anomaly amidst the curved chaos. Harry stared at it, then at Steve, his surprise evident.

Steve began to collect the broken toys, focusing on fabric scraps, soft padding from torn cushions, and even some of the more malleable plastic components that might offer structure. He moved with a practiced efficiency, sorting and preparing the materials. He would make Harry comfortable, even if it meant creating something entirely new within the boundaries of his crafting knowledge.

His blocky hands deftly worked through the detritus. He pulled torn curtains from a dusty window, gathering the fabric. He snapped apart a broken wooden rocking horse, extracting splinters of wood. A mangled metal robot yielded twisted pieces of metal. For cushioning, he salvaged stuffing from a burst beanbag chair and the internal soft parts of several old, flat pillows.

Amongst the pile of discarded plushies, a grubby, one-eared teddy bear lay half-hidden. Steve paused. He instinctively knew the purpose of such an item – comfort. He left it untouched, nudging it slightly with his foot so it was more visible, clearly meant for the small person.

Harry watched, mesmerized. He had never seen anyone, let alone a blocky man, dismantle Dudley’s precious and usually untouched discards with such purpose. A strange curiosity mingled with his relief. When Steve left the teddy bear, Harry’s eyes widened, and a faint blush touched his pale cheeks. He actually felt… considered.

Steve returned to his crafting table, the gathered materials now seemingly hovering around him. He didn't just place them on the grid; they seemed to flow into the table, reforming and merging with a soft, whirring hum that only Steve could truly hear. The air around the cubic table shimmered, a faint, almost imperceptible distortion of light.

Moments later, the shimmering intensified, and from the top of the crafting table emerged a rolled-up bundle. Steve picked it up. It wasn't a bed, but a long, rectangular sleeping bag, made of patched-together fabrics in muted browns and faded blues. It looked surprisingly soft and far more inviting than the cupboard. He could feel the cushioning within, and a subtle stiffness that gave it form. It smelled faintly of old dust, but also something clean, like fresh linen. It was a perfect, if temporary, solution.

He had created comfort from junk, by bending the rules of this world into his own.

Steve unrolled the sleeping bag on a relatively clear patch of floor away from the broken toys. It unfurled into a surprisingly cozy-looking rectangle. He then gently nudged the one-eared teddy bear towards its opening. Harry, still clutching the Book and Quill, looked from the sleeping bag to the teddy bear, then up at Steve. His green eyes held a new light, something akin to wonder.

"So I bet you want your book back?" Harry asked, his voice still small but gaining a touch more confidence.

A sharp, immediate nod from Steve. The Book and Quill was a valuable tool, especially now that he had a means to write more complex thoughts than his guttural attempts at speech.

Harry carefully handed the Book and Quill back to Steve. As Steve took it, Harry added, "This book and quill are for questions that aren't simple yes or no answers, right?"

Another firm nod from Steve. This small, terrified boy was surprisingly intuitive. It made his task easier. Harry slipped inside the sleeping bag, clutching the one-eared teddy bear. For the first time that day, Harry's small face seemed to relax, his body uncoiling from its defensive crouch. He looked up at Steve, and this time, the glimmer in his eyes was pure, unadulterated relief.

Steve, satisfied with Harry's immediate comfort, turned his attention to the door of Dudley's spare room. Harry was safe here for now, but the Dursleys were still a threat. He needed a more robust, if temporary, defense.

Reaching into his inventory, Steve pulled out a block of grass. It was pristine, fresh, a stark contrast to the dusty room. With a swift movement, he placed it directly inside the doorway, forming an immediate, immovable barrier. It wasn't permanent, but it would certainly deter anyone trying to simply push the door open. The block itself radiated a subtle, impenetrable force that would keep the door securely shut from the inside.

He glanced at Harry, who watched him with wide, curious eyes. Steve offered a silent, reassuring nod, then turned and exited the room.

Back in the hallway, the muffled grunts and frustrated thumps of Vernon Dursley echoed. Steve moved silently down the stairs. The dirt block he had placed earlier was still there, the Dursleys still fuming and attempting to find a way around it. Vernon was red-faced, his attempts to physically dislodge the block proving utterly futile. Petunia was slumped against the wall behind him, looking utterly distraught.

Steve approached the dirt block, his form casting a long, blocky shadow in the dim hallway. With a single, decisive motion, he harvested the dirt block. It vanished into his inventory with a soft a shwip, leaving the hallway clear once more.

The Dursleys stumbled forward, their momentum carrying them past the point where the block had been. They froze, blinking, their eyes darting to the empty space, then to Steve. A flicker of terror, unadulterated and potent, flashed across their faces as they realized their captor was now free to move.

Steve ignored them, his gaze sweeping over the rest of the house. He couldn't kill them, and Harry couldn't leave. His mission was to protect Harry within these walls, which meant securing the entire perimeter. He needed more resources, better tools, and a comprehensive understanding of this strange, curved structure. The night was still young in this peculiar new world, and Steve had work to do. He would explore. He would mine. He would build. And he would protect.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Resource Gathering and Strategic Defense

The Dursleys' sputtering rage faded into the background as Steve moved silently through the house. His blocky gaze, however, wasn't focused on them, but on the larger mission. Harry was safe for now, tucked away in the spare room, but a single grass block wouldn't hold back the human "mobs" forever. He needed better defenses, and for that, he needed materials.

His inherent knowledge from his own world clashed with the new, learned rules of this one. Normally, he'd punch through walls, mine floors, and chop down furniture. But the magic binding Harry to this house, and the woman who maintained the wards, meant a critical restriction: he couldn't cause permanent harm to any living structure. If a single part of this house, or any other inhabited home, suffered significant damage, the lady would suffer, and Harry would be affected by association. It was a delicate balance.

So, the standard operating procedure was out. Direct mining of living houses was a no-go. His focus shifted to a new, more nuanced strategy: recycling.

Leaving the Dursleys to their impotent fury in the hallway, Steve moved towards the back of the house, his movements quiet and precise. He found the back door, and after a moment's consideration, easily bypassed its lock with a gentle tap of his pickaxe, leaving the door itself intact but now accessible. The suburban night air, cool and unfamiliar, greeted him.

His search began not with aggression, but with reconnaissance. He moved through the quiet streets, a blocky phantom under the curved moon. He bypassed brightly lit homes, their warm glow signifying life and the strict "no-harm" rule. Instead, he sought out the tell-tale signs of abandonment: boarded-up windows, overgrown gardens, faded "For Sale" signs that looked like they'd been there for years. These, his instincts told him, were safe to mine. He would only take what was clearly discarded or from structures already condemned.

He found his first target: a small, dilapidated shed behind an empty, overgrown house a few streets away. It was teetering on its foundations, clearly ready for demolition. Here, Steve could operate with less restraint. He methodically harvested rotten wood planks from its walls, crumbling stone bricks from its foundation, and even some rusted iron scraps from its broken roof. Each material, though curved and irregular in this world, compressed instantly into its perfect, cubic counterpart in his inventory.

Next, he turned his attention to the mundane. He prowled the sidewalks, targeting garbage bins left out for collection. While he couldn't just take them, he could process their contents. He found discarded plastic bottles, flattened cardboard boxes, broken glass shards, and even old, worn-out textiles. Each item, when picked up, subtly reformed in his hands, becoming a generic cube of "plastic," "paper," "glass," or "fabric," ready for his crafting table. It wasn't abundant, but it was a sustainable source, and most importantly, it was safe.

He returned to Privet Drive, his inventory slowly filling with these salvaged treasures. He avoided disturbing anything, leaving no trace of his presence other than a slightly lighter bin or a more neatly organized pile of demolition debris. The Dursleys' house loomed ahead, a bastion he needed to protect, not exploit.

Steve's internal compass pointed him back inside, his mind already churning with recipes. He had a few pieces of wood, some stone, enough fabric for more comforts, and even a handful of iron. Enough to begin crafting more robust security measures than simple dirt blocks. He needed to make this house, for Harry, as close to an impenetrable fortress as magic and his own unique skills would allow, all without disturbing the delicate balance of the wards.

He slipped back inside the quiet house. The distant sounds of the Dursleys, still muttering and occasionally testing the invisible barrier of his single dirt block in the hallway, confirmed they remained contained. Good. That bought him time.

His first priority was reinforcing Harry's sanctuary. He ascended the stairs, moving silently, and found Harry still nestled in the improvised sleeping bag, the one-eared teddy bear clutched close. The boy was asleep, a faint, peaceful expression on his face that tugged at Steve's protective instincts.

Steve carefully harvested the temporary grass block from the doorway of the spare room. It vanished with a soft shwip. The door now stood open, revealing the sleeping boy. He couldn't leave Harry completely exposed, even for a moment.

He accessed his inventory, his mind already running the necessary recipes. From his salvaged iron scraps, he crafted a sturdy Iron Door. Its surface was flat, solid, and utterly unlike the curved, wooden doors of the Dursley house. It materialized with a heavy clang, perfectly formed.

Next, from a piece of wood and some salvaged metal from Dudley's old toys, he crafted a Lever. And from some discarded electronics and bits of wire found in a forgotten toolbox in the shed, he fashioned crude Redstone Dust and a tiny, almost invisible Button. The process was instantaneous, a symphony of material transformation only he could truly understand.

He began the installation. The Iron Door slotted perfectly into the doorframe, replacing the flimsy wooden one. It was a tight fit, demanding slight adjustments to the frame, but Steve worked with precision, leaving no visible damage. This door wouldn't budge for a simple push.

On the inside, he attached the Lever to the wall beside the door. A simple flick would open the heavy door from within.

The outside was more complex. He needed a discreet entry point for Harry, or himself, that the Dursleys wouldn't find. He carefully selected a spot on the doorframe, right where the wood met the wall, a place where shadows naturally gathered. There, he painstakingly embedded the small, hidden button, barely visible against the dark wood. It was powered by a thin line of Redstone Dust he laid subtly along the wall, unseen by the casual eye, connecting to the door's mechanism.

This button, attuned to his unique connection to this world's underlying fabric, would only activate with a precise touch, one that he or Harry, with their burgeoning magical links to him, could perceive and execute without conscious thought. To anyone else, it would be just another bump in the woods.

He stepped back, surveying his work. The Iron Door stood strong, an unyielding barrier. No more simple dirt blocks. This was a proper defense. Harry was now encased in an outer shell that would not be breached by simple physical force. The first priority was well underway.

The muffled roars from downstairs reminded him of his next immediate task: a more permanent, and hopefully less infuriating, containment solution for the Dursleys.

The muffled roars from downstairs reminded him of his next immediate task: a more permanent, and hopefully less infuriating, containment solution for the Dursleys. He couldn't kill them, nor could he permanently damage the house, but he absolutely needed to neutralize them as a threat to Harry.

Steve descended the stairs, his blocky footsteps silent on the carpet. Vernon was now attempting to ram his considerable bulk against the invisible barrier, his face a horrifying shade of puce. Petunia was slumped against the wall, whimpering. Dudley, who had likely retreated from the original confrontation, peered cautiously from the living room doorway, his eyes wide and terrified.

Steve removed the single dirt block, letting the Dursleys stumble forward once more. They recoiled instantly as he stood before them, an unmoving, blocky sentinel. Vernon braced himself, but Steve didn't raise his wooden sword. This wasn't a combat situation anymore. This was about persuasion and threat assessment.

His eyes, still unable to truly communicate complex thought, fixed on Dudley first. Dudley, the obviously spoiled child, is likely used to getting his way through tantrums and bullying. Steve knew, without knowing how, that this creature responded to demonstrations of power and, perhaps, the fear of losing comfort.

Then, he looked at Petunia and Vernon. He couldn't kill them, but he could certainly make their lives… inconvenient. He held up a hand, and from his inventory, a single, perfectly formed TNT block appeared. It was a stark, red cube with the word "TNT" emblazoned on its side. It pulsed with an unspoken threat, a raw, destructive power that, even in this curved world, radiated danger.

The Dursleys' eyes immediately latched onto it. Vernon's purple face went pale, his bluster dying in his throat. Petunia let out a strangled gasp. Dudley squeaked and scurried back into the living room, disappearing behind the sofa. The message was clear: Steve possessed power far beyond their comprehension, power he was capable of using.

Steve then, with deliberate slowness, put the TNT block back into his inventory. He pulled out his Book and Quill. His thoughts, though still inaudible, were forming with greater clarity. He rapidly wrote:

“I PROTECT SMALL PERSON. HE IS SAFE. HE WILL NOT BE HARMED. YOU WILL NOT HARM HIM. I WILL DO CHORES. ALL CHORES. YOUR CHORES. HIS CHORES. AS LONG AS NO HARM. IF HARM, BIG EXPLOSION. YOU UNDERSTAND?”

He held out the book, his blocky gaze unwavering as Vernon and Petunia slowly, fearfully, shuffled closer to read. Their eyes darted from the words to Steve's silent, menacing presence and then to the spot where the TNT block had just been.

Vernon swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "You... you'll do the chores?" he managed to croak, the concept battling with his terror.

Steve gave a firm, almost imperceptible nod. His mouth still couldn't form the words, but the intent was clear.

Petunia, ever pragmatic in her terror, eyed the silent, blocky figure. The offer of free labor, coupled with the implicit threat of explosive consequences, was a strange, terrifying package.

Steve then turned and walked into the kitchen, his intentions clear. He would demonstrate. He would show them the efficiency of a block-world inhabitant. The Dursleys were still a threat, but now, they were a contained threat, at least for the moment. Their fear of him, and the promise of a life of no chores (and no explosions), would hopefully be enough to keep Harry safe. If not, the TNT was a powerful persuasive tool.

The kitchen was a disaster zone of dirty dishes, crusted pots, and overflowing bins. Petunia, ever the fastidious housewife, must have been too consumed by her rage and terror to even attempt to clean. Steve assessed the grime with a blocky tilt of his head. This was an excellent demonstration opportunity.

He approached the sink, overflowing with dirty plates and greasy pans. He picked up a teacup. His blocky hand, usually so adept at gripping perfect cubes, struggled with the round handle. It felt alien, slipping against his rigid fingers. He tried to grip a plate, and it wobbled precariously. The smooth, curved surfaces of these objects were utterly foreign to his block-world physics.

Then, instinct kicked in. A simple put into inventory and back out solved the problem. When the teacup rematerialized in his hand, it was still round, but his grip was now firm, unyielding. To Steve, the object hadn't changed, but his perception of it had. He realized that to his blocky mind, everything was, at its core, composed of cubes. These "curves" were simply very, very tiny cubes, arranged in such a way that on a larger scale, they appeared round. His mental programming re-textured reality for him, allowing his blocky hands to interact seamlessly with these strangely smooth objects.

Armed with this new understanding, Steve began to clean. He worked with astonishing speed and precision. Dishes, once picked up, seemed to shimmer for a split second, becoming perfectly clean before being stacked. Food scraps vanished into his inventory, presumably for composting or later disposal. Pots and pans, caked with grease, were rendered spotless with a single touch. The sink, overflowing moments ago, was empty, gleaming, and dry within minutes. The entire process was silent, utterly devoid of splashing water or clanging crockery.

Vernon and Petunia, who had slowly edged their way to the kitchen doorway, watched in horrified fascination. Their personal freak, the blocky anomaly threatening their lives, was also the most efficient house-elf they could ever imagine. The kitchen, usually a battleground of domestic duties, was now a pristine, sterile environment, all thanks to the terrifying, silent figure in their midst.

Vernon and Petunia, who had slowly edged their way to the kitchen doorway, watched in horrified fascination. Their personal freak, the blocky anomaly threatening their lives, was also the most efficient house-elf they could ever imagine. The kitchen, usually a battleground of domestic duties, was now a pristine, sterile environment, all thanks to the terrifying, silent figure in their midst.

Their faces, initially twisted in outrage and fear, slowly morphed into something akin to reluctant awe, then a calculating, greedy gleam. The concept of free, perfect labor, juxtaposed with the very real threat of explosive consequences, proved to be an irresistible combination for the Dursleys.

Vernon, still pale but regaining some of his bluster, cleared his throat. "Right," he grunted, glancing at Petunia, who gave a sharp, almost imperceptible nod of agreement. "Alright, you... you thing. We understand. No harm to the boy. You... you can do the chores. All of them. As long as he stays put, and you don't..." He gestured vaguely, nervously, at the floor where the TNT block had briefly appeared.

Steve gave a single, firm nod. The message was received. They were willing to cease their immediate hostilities. This was an acceptable, if temporary, truce. Their fear, coupled with their inherent laziness, provided the leverage he needed.

Petunia, ever the one for details, spoke next, her voice still thin but now edged with a strange, almost demanding tone. "Yes. Until his eleventh birthday. You understand?"

Steve processed the words. "Eleventh birthday." The phrase was new, loaded with an unknown significance. He understood the number 'eleven,' but "birthday"? He had no corresponding data. Was it a specific date? A celebration? A milestone? He instinctively knew Harry was the "small person," but what was a "birthday" in this curved world? Would his own arrival in this world, his "spawn day," be considered his birthday? The thought was a fleeting, abstract curiosity in his efficient mind.

He gave Petunia another silent nod. He didn't understand the 'why' of the eleventh birthday, but he understood the 'when.' Until then, he was the Dursleys' blocky, terrifying, and impeccably efficient maid. His primary goal of protecting Harry, without harming the Dursleys, was, for the moment, secured. He had bought time. Time to understand the house, time to find a way to extract the "piece of a person," and time to prepare for whatever significance Harry's eleventh birthday held.

The Dursleys have agreed to the truce, making Steve their reluctant, terrifying, and ultra-efficient house-elf until Harry's 11th birthday. Steve is left pondering the meaning of "birthday."

Chapter Text

​Chapter 5: Zoo Day and Deadline

The days bled into weeks, each one a meticulous cycle of chores and vigilance for Steve. The Dursleys, true to their word, kept their distance from Harry. The terrifying efficiency of their blocky "maid," combined with the lingering threat of TNT, ensured their compliance. Steve cleaned, cooked, gardened, and mowed with a silent, relentless precision that left the Dursleys both pampered and perpetually on edge. Harry, meanwhile, thrived in Dudley's spare room, no longer confined to the cupboard, his new sleeping bag a haven. Steve would often sit outside his door, a silent guardian, sometimes pulling out his Book and Quill to jot down thoughts, sometimes just observing the strange, curved world around him.

​He continued his nocturnal scavenging, gathering discarded wood, metal, fabric, and whatever else he could repurpose from abandoned lots and overflowing bins. His inventory grew, and with it, his potential for more complex defenses and comforts. The iron door on Harry's room remained a formidable barrier, a silent testament to Steve's protective instincts.

​Then came the day that broke the routine: Dudley's birthday.

​Steve felt a surge of unease. He had a vague understanding that "birthday" was a significant event, a celebration for a person, but his previous research hadn't clarified its exact implications. He was soon to find out.

​"You're coming too, you... cosplayer!" Vernon Dursley had grumbled, glaring at Steve's blocky form. "Petunia says it'll look normal. Like one of those freaks who dress up."

​Steve processed the word: "cosplayer." And then, another word, a flicker of something deeply ingrained, stirred in his mind: "Minecraft." Minecraft. The title screen. He remembered it now, a vast, blocky world stretching out beneath the words. It hadn't fully registered before, as he wasn't "fully there," but now, the connection solidified. He was in a game? His whole existence, a game? The thought was both unsettling and strangely… familiar. It explained the inexplicable knowledge, the crafting, the inventory.

But if he was in a game, then who was the player?

​Despite the existential revelation, Steve’s primary objective remained: Harry. If Harry was going, he was going.

​The trip to the zoo was a jarring experience. The vehicle, a curved monstrosity that somehow moved without visible propulsion blocks, was cramped. Dudley and his friend Piers were loud and obnoxious, while Harry was quiet, squeezed between Dudley and the window. Steve, described as a "cosplayer," sat stiffly, his blocky form drawing curious, sometimes amused, glances from other road users.

​The zoo itself was a cacophony of strange animal sounds and even stranger human ones. The air was thick with the scent of popcorn and exotic creatures. Steve moved with a watchful stillness, his senses alert, his focus unwavering on Harry. He ignored the Dursleys' attempts to embarrass Harry, or their endless spoiling of Dudley. His duty was clear.

​They stopped at the reptile house. Harry, surprisingly, seemed fascinated by a large boa constrictor. Dudley, bored, tapped on the glass. Suddenly, the glass itself seemed to vanish. Not break, not shatter, but simply vanish. The boa constrictor, now free, slithered out, heading directly for Dudley.

​Steve's combat instincts flared. Hostile mob detected. He clenched his blocky fists, ready to engage the serpentine threat. A wooden sword or perhaps a diamond pickaxe would be ideal, but he was currently unarmed in the guise of a "cosplayer." He braced himself, preparing to physically intercept the snake.

​But before he could act, Harry spoke.

​"Sorry about him," Harry whispered to the snake. "He doesn't understand what it's like, lying there day after day, watching people tap on the glass."

​And then, the snake responded. Not with hisses that were just sounds, but with words. Steve heard them as clearly as if a villager had spoken. The boa constrictor hissed back, "I see... It's just my luck... never been to Brazil..."

​Steve froze. His blocky head tilted. This was… weird. Even for a Minecraftian whose entire world was made of blocks and operated on rigid logic. Animals didn't talk. Not like that. And glass didn't just vanish. This was a new variable, a new form of "magic" altogether. This was beyond enchanting tools or summoning dirt blocks. This was something inherent to Harry, something that reshaped reality in ways Steve couldn't yet comprehend. It was disturbing. It was intriguing. And it changed everything.

​The zoo erupted into pandemonium. The boa constrictor, after its brief conversation with Harry and its grateful slither past Dudley, was now cruising calmly down the main path towards the exit, causing shrieks and scattering crowds. Vernon Dursley, his face already purple from the heat and the earlier confrontation with Steve, turned an alarming shade of maroon.

​"MY SON! MY DUDLEY!" Vernon Dursley roared, grabbing Petunia's arm. "THAT FREAK! HE DID THIS!"

​Petunia, ever the practical one, didn't shriek about Harry. Instead, her eyes, wide with a familiar terror, darted towards Steve. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. She remembered the TNT.

She remembered the implied threat. The perfect kitchen. The perfectly mown lawn. The quiet promise of detonation if Harry was harmed.

​The entire birthday outing, which should have ended in Dudley's triumph and Harry's inevitable return to the cupboard, was utterly ruined. Dudley, bawling dramatically about the snake, was dragged away by his parents, his cries echoing through the fleeing crowds.

Harry, strangely calm amidst the chaos, merely watched the snake disappear, a small, thoughtful smile playing on his lips.

​Steve remained silent, his gaze fixed on the Dursleys. Their outrage, their desire to punish Harry, was palpable. But the memory of the TNT and the implicit threat of perfection – the chores done with unnerving efficiency, the very tangible consequences of breaking their end of the bargain – kept them in line. They didn't lay a hand on Harry. They simply scowled, muttered under their breath about "freaks," and steered Dudley away.

​As Steve followed them out of the zoo, his mind whirred. He now understood what a "birthday" was: a milestone, a celebration of a person's existence. And Harry's "eleventh birthday"... that phrase, spoken by Petunia in the house, now resonated with a new, profound meaning. Something significant happened when people turned eleven in this world. Something magical. Something powerful enough to override even the deeply ingrained "spawn point" magic that kept Harry tethered to this house.

​Harry's ability to speak to animals, to unintentionally make glass disappear, was merely a preview. His eleventh birthday wasn't just a date; it was a deadline. A deadline for Steve to understand the larger magical rules of this world, to find a way to deal with the "piece of a person" in Harry's scar, and to prepare Harry for whatever lay beyond Privet Drive. The stakes had just escalated dramatically.
​

​The drive back to Privet Drive was fraught with a tense, uncharacteristic silence from the Dursleys. Dudley was still sulking about the ruined outing, and Vernon and Petunia were too preoccupied with their simmering rage and unspoken fear of Steve to utter more than clipped commands. Steve, for his part, was a silent block of contemplation, his internal processors whirring.

​Once back at Number Four, Steve guided Harry directly to Dudley's spare room. He secured the door with the grass block, a temporary but effective measure, before removing it to allow Harry inside, then replacing the iron door and activating its hidden button mechanism. The Dursleys, having learned their lesson, merely watched from a safe distance in the living room, their fear of Steve (and the ever-present threat of TNT) outweighing their desire to punish Harry.

​Inside the spare room, Harry immediately sat on his sleeping bag, clutching the teddy bear, his usually pale face showing a faint flush of excitement from the zoo, despite the Dursleys' mood.

​Steve knelt before Harry, then pulled out his Book and Quill. He had a lot to convey, and simple nods wouldn't suffice. His blocky fingers grasped the quill, writing with careful, deliberate strokes.

​"SMALL PERSON. NAME: HARRY. I SAW. YOU TALKED TO SNAKE. GLASS DISAPPEARED. NOT MY MAGIC. DIFFERENT MAGIC. YOUR MAGIC. POWERFUL. YOU DID NOT KNOW?"

​He pushed the book towards Harry. The boy's eyes, wide with a mixture of apprehension and fascination, scanned the blocky script. As he read the words, his face paled slightly, then flushed even deeper. He looked up at Steve, his green eyes searching, questioning.

​"You... you saw that?" Harry whispered, his voice barely audible.

"I... I don't know how I did it. It just... happens sometimes. Weird things. Like when Aunt Petunia cut my hair, and it grew back overnight. Or when I ended up on the school roof." He looked down at his hands, as if they held the secret. "I thought it was just... me being a freak."

​Steve shook his head, a decisive, slow movement. He took the book back and wrote again:

​"NOT FREAK. MAGIC. GOOD. DANGER. HARD TO CONTROL. BUT YOU WILL LEARN. YOU'RE ELEVEN YEARS OLD. IMPORTANT."

​Harry's eyes widened again as he read Steve's words. "My eleventh birthday?" he asked, looking up. "Why is that important? Aunt Petunia always says nothing good happens when I get older."

​Steve felt a pang of something akin to frustration. The complexities of human emotion were still largely alien to him, but Harry's apparent ignorance of his own power, and the Dursleys' deliberate suppression of it, was a clear impediment to his primary mission. He retrieved the book once more, a single-minded determination in his movements. He needed to explain the gravity of the situation, the deadline, the potential for greater threats, and the implications of this magic.

​"ELEVEN YEARS. DATE. MAGIC PEOPLE COME. TAKE YOU. TRAIN YOU. FAR AWAY FROM THE HOUSE. BUT A PIECE OF PERSON INSIDE YOU. DANGEROUS. THEY MAY NOT KNOW. OR MAY NOT CARE. I PROTECT. BUT I NEED TO UNDERSTAND. WE NEED TO REMOVE THE PIECE. BEFORE THEY COME."

​He handed the book back, hoping the stark, direct words would convey the urgency. Harry read them, his breath catching in his throat. His face drained of color, then turned a ghostly white. The mention of "magic people," of being taken "far away," and especially of a "piece of person inside you" clearly hit him with the force of a physical blow. The simple, black-and-white explanation, devoid of Dursley-esque sugarcoating or fear, seemed to pierce through years of suppression.

​Harry looked at the Book and Quill, then at Steve, his small body trembling. The silent, blocky man who had materialized in his life was not just a protector; he was a conduit to a world Harry hadn't even dared to dream existed, a world where his "freakishness" was "magic," and where his own safety was tied to a sinister, unseen force. And there was a deadline.

​He took the quill, his hand shaking slightly as he prepared to write. His familiar, flowing script, normally a stark contrast to Steve's blocky letters, now seemed to quiver on the page.

​"My eleventh birthday is a deadline then? You should know my birthday is on Halloween."

​He pushed the book back to Steve, his green eyes, usually so wary and resigned, now burning with a desperate urgency.

​Steve's internal processors clicked. Halloween. That data point immediately registered. It wasn't just a day; it was a specific date, a significant marker in the calendar. It was also, he vaguely recalled from his own world's learned lore, often associated with strange occurrences and the surfacing of supernatural elements. A fitting "spawn day" for a different kind of mob.

​The urgency of his mission intensified. He had until Halloween.

The "magic people" would come then. He needed to understand this world's magic, find a way to remove the "piece of a person," and prepare Harry for a future that was rapidly approaching.
​Steve nodded slowly, a profound understanding settling over his blocky form. There was no time to lose.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: The Unseen Curriculum

​The Halloween deadline hung in Steve's mind like a ticking Redstone clock. It was no longer just about protecting Harry from the Dursleys; it was about preparing him for an entire world of magic he didn't understand, and a sinister "piece of a person" he had to excise. His understanding of this complex scenario, far beyond the simple survival logic of his own world, was growing with every new piece of information.

​His immediate goals solidified into a multi-pronged strategy

1. ​Understanding Magic: He needed to understand his magic – how his game logic intersected with this world's reality – and, crucially, Harry's untrained magic. Observation, experimentation, and perhaps even targeted resource gathering for magical reagents would be key.
2. ​Contingency (Extraction Failure): If the "piece" couldn't be removed before the "magic people" arrived, he would present himself as Harry's bodyguard. This meant refining his communication and demonstrating his capabilities to these unknown magical entities.
3. ​Contingency (Learning from the "Magic People"): If bodyguarding wasn't feasible, or if they had knowledge he lacked, he would become a student, learning from them whatever was necessary to protect Harry from the "piece."
4. Harry's Survival Skills: Even if Harry wasn't a Minecraftian, basic survival skills – finding items, navigating unfamiliar environments – could prove invaluable. Steve resolved to begin this training.

​The Dursleys, having settled into a terrified but pampered routine, allowed Steve free rein. Their house was immaculate, their meals perfectly prepared, their chores done with uncanny speed. They rarely ventured upstairs, leaving Harry and Steve in their own strange bubble of existence. They watched Steve's movements with a nervous wariness, especially when he emerged with a handful of discarded electronic scraps or peculiar plants gleaned from distant, unkempt alleyways.

​Steve's days now became a meticulous blend of domestic efficiency and clandestine preparation. While polishing the silver, his mind would be analyzing the ambient magical hum of the house, trying to pinpoint its source, its nature. While pruning Petunia's prize roses (a task he performed with alarming botanical precision), he would be observing the intricate structure of the plants, wondering if their essence could be "mined" for some arcane purpose.

​He began his direct exploration of Harry's magic by subtle observation. He would watch Harry as the boy ate, slept, or read, looking for any stray flicker of accidental magic. He recalled the vanishing glass, the talking snake. These were not conscious acts.

How could he prompt them? How could he quantify them? It was like trying to debug a program with no error messages.

​His nights were dedicated to resource gathering. He continued to visit abandoned properties and scavenge bins, but now, his choices were more deliberate. He looked for specific types of minerals in discarded masonry, unique plant fibers, and unusual liquid containers. He amassed a small, growing collection of "raw materials" that, in his mind, might translate into components for magical study or more advanced defenses. He even began to experiment with crafting basic glass bottles from discarded shards, wondering if they could store magical energy.

​Communication with Harry became central to his plans. During Harry’s waking hours, Steve would sit in Dudley's spare room, pulling out his Book and Quill. He would write questions about Harry's past accidental magic, trying to piece together a pattern, an activation trigger. Harry, fascinated and eager to understand his "freakishness," answered diligently, pouring out stories of floating puddings and mysteriously vanished sweaters.

​Then, Steve started writing about the "wilderness."

​"HARRY. WE NEED TO PREPARE. YOU MAY NEED TO FIND ITEMS. SURVIVE. WITHOUT HOUSE. CAN YOU FIND? IDENTIFY? HIDE? NOT ALWAYS SAFE HERE."

​Harry's brow furrowed. "But... we can't leave the house for long, can we?" he wrote back.

​"TRUE. BUT MAYBE. SHORT TRIPS. NEARBY. PRACTICE. ESSENTIAL." Steve wrote, recognizing the boy's apprehension but emphasizing the necessity.

​He knew that simply explaining "wilderness survival" wouldn't suffice. He would need to teach Harry in a way the boy could understand, adapting his own block-world principles to this curved reality. It was a daunting task, but the Halloween deadline was approaching, and Steve was nothing if not persistent.

​Steve decided to start with the most fundamental Minecraft skill: resource gathering. Not in a forest filled with cubic trees, but in the mundane, curved world of Privet Drive. He had ample supplies of basic materials in his inventory – wood, stone, fabric, even some iron – all perfectly cubed versions of what he'd salvaged. These would serve as his "dropped items."

​The next sunny afternoon, Steve pulled out his Book and Quill again. Harry, looking brighter and more alert than when Steve had found him, was waiting in the spare room.

​"TODAY. OUTSIDE. SHORT TRIP. NEARBY PARK. OBJECTIVE: FIND ITEMS. LIKE THIS." Steve wrote, then reached into his inventory and produced a single, small cubic block of wood. He placed it on the floor between them. "FIND MORE. DIFFERENT TYPES. YOU WILL LEARN ABOUT THE WORLD."

​Harry stared at the block of wood, then at Steve, a mixture of bewilderment and excitement on his face. "Go outside? Really?" he scribbled back.

​"YES. SAFE. I AM WITH YOU." Steve affirmed with a firm nod.

​Convincing the Dursleys was surprisingly easy. Steve simply stood by the front door, his blocky presence radiating quiet determination. Vernon, after a brief, nervous look at Petunia, grumbled, "Fine, fine! Take the boy out for some fresh air, cosplayer. Just... don't cause any trouble." The implied threat of TNT, lingering like an unexploded charge, was enough.

​They walked to the nearby park, a stretch of green lawn with a few scattered trees, a swingset, and some rocky patches. Steve kept a watchful eye on Harry, and on their surroundings. He noted the park's layout, mentally mapping it into his familiar grid.

​Once in a relatively secluded area, Steve began his unusual lesson.

From his seemingly endless inventory, he would subtly drop items. He didn't just scatter them randomly. He strategically placed a cubic block of wood near the base of an old oak tree, then another near a fallen branch. He concealed a small stone block (mined from a crumbling garden wall nearby during his nocturnal rounds) half-buried near a patch of exposed earth. A small, perfectly cubed piece of fabric – repurposed from an old discarded towel – lay tucked into a thick bush. He even dropped a coal lump (from an old barbecue bag he’d found) near a darkened patch of soil.

​"Okay," Harry said, understanding the game. He wandered off, a determined look on his face. At first, he struggled. He walked past the obvious wooden block several times, his eyes used to scanning for curved, natural shapes, not perfect cubes. Steve remained silent, offering only encouraging nods when Harry showed signs of frustration.

​Finally, Harry spotted the wood block. His eyes lit up. "Got one!" he exclaimed, picking it up. It felt solid, strangely smooth, and utterly out of place. He showed it to Steve, who gave another approving nod.

​Harry's confidence grew. He began to look for the "odd" shapes, the perfect cubes that didn't belong. He found the stone, then the fabric. He even managed to locate the lump of coal, his initial confusion giving way to a nascent understanding. He didn't know what these strange, blocky items were, or where Steve got them, but he was learning to see resources. He was learning to find.

​Steve observed Harry's progress with quiet satisfaction. This wasn't just about finding cubes; it was about training Harry's observational skills, about teaching him to recognize useful materials in an unfamiliar environment, and to overcome the initial disorientation of the "unnatural." It was the first step in preparing Harry for a world far more dangerous than anything he could imagine.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: The Unblocking of Steve

​The weeks that followed settled into a rhythm driven by Steve's relentless preparation. Harry’s scavenger hunts in the park became more sophisticated. Steve introduced concepts like efficiency of search patterns, identifying hidden resources (a loose brick in a wall, an old bottle under a bush), and even rudimentary tracking, as Harry learned to spot the faint impressions left by discarded items. Harry, unknowingly, was mastering the fundamentals of Minecraft exploration, his mind bending to perceive the world through Steve's blocky lens. He found a strange satisfaction in finding the perfectly cubed pieces of wood or stone that Steve had subtly placed, a sense of accomplishment that dwarfed any praise from the Dursleys.

​Beyond resource gathering, Steve moved on to other critical skills.

They practiced evasion: how to quickly move through various terrains, how to find temporary cover, how not to be seen. This was often done during their 'park visits,' with Steve silently directing Harry through drills, using his own blocky presence as an occasional, looming 'mob' to practice evading. Harry, surprisingly nimble despite his small stature, took to it with an intensity born of years of being hunted by Dudley.

​Steve also began to teach Harry about shelter. Not building elaborate structures, but identifying safe, temporary spots: a sturdy tree offering natural cover, a dense bush, an overhang of rock. He'd often use his Book and Quill to draw rudimentary diagrams, blocky representations of concepts that Harry, by now, was starting to instinctively grasp.

​All the while, the Dursleys remained docile, lulled by Steve's impeccable upkeep of their home and the lingering terror of the TNT. They rarely saw Harry, preferring to believe he was safely confined to Dudley's spare room, and only interacted with Steve when absolutely necessary, often stiffening in his presence.

​The most profound change, however, was in Steve himself. The guttural attempts at speech, once rare and rough, slowly began to smooth out, to coalesce into something more discernible. It was subtle at first – clearer grunts, then approximations of vowels. His internal processing, constantly translating complex thoughts into rudimentary sounds, was adapting.

​Then, one evening, as he watched Harry meticulously sort his collection of 'found items' (small pebbles, interesting leaves, fragments of discarded plastic), Steve found himself wanting to ask a specific question. He focused, pushing the intent through the strange, unblocking barrier of his mouth.

​"H-Harry. You... good?"

​The words, though fragmented and delivered in a tone that sounded as if each syllable were being chiseled from stone, were undeniably understandable. Harry froze, his head snapping up. His eyes, wide with disbelief, stared at Steve.

​"Steve? You... you talked?" Harry whispered, a mixture of awe and shock on his face.

​Steve nodded, then tried again, the effort still immense, but the result clearer. "Yes. Talk. Now. Understand. More." His voice sounded like what Harry imagined a 'blocky font' would sound like if it had a voice – rigid, low-pitched, lacking fluidity, but each word distinct and deliberate.

​A grin, wide and disbelieving, spread across Harry's face. "You can talk! That's brilliant!"

​Steve felt a strange, new sensation – a quiet satisfaction. This was a crucial development. He might not speak fluently, his voice forever carrying the echo of his cubic origins, but he could now hold a conversation. The silent barrier between them was broken.

​The Halloween deadline was drawing closer, and with it, the "magic people." Steve now had a voice, Harry had learned to find and survive, and together, they would face what was to come.

​The next day, as Harry was meticulously organizing his latest haul of "found items"—a surprisingly sturdy plastic bottle, a few interesting-looking stones, and some oddly soft moss from the park—Steve sat beside him. The Dursleys were currently engrossed in a particularly dull television program, blissfully unaware of the profound conversations unfolding upstairs.

​"Harry," Steve began, his voice still that distinct, blocky cadence, like a font made audible, "C-can explain. Why. Need. Skills."

​Harry looked up, his green eyes alight with anticipation. "Yes, please! I mean, I like finding things, and I feel like I'm getting better at sneaking around, but why is it so important? For a birthday?"

​Steve nodded, his square head tilting slightly. "Birthday. Deadline."

He paused, gathering his thoughts. "My world... Minecraft." He saw Harry's eyes widen. "You... know about that, don't you?" Harry managed, remembering the "cosplayer" comment.

​"Yes. My world. My experiences. Many dangers there." Steve paused again, searching for the right words in this new, fluid language. "In Minecraft, you must always find. Food. Wood. Stone. Ore. For tools. For shelter. To survive. Mobs come. Night. Dark. Dangerous."

​He gestured with a blocky hand, as if conjuring images. "Sometimes... lost. No map. Must navigate. Find a way. Avoid creepers. Zombies. Spiders. Must build. Protect self. From threats. Always. This world... different. But threats here. Too."

​He looked intently at Harry. "Your magic. Strong. But... untrained. Wild. Like... un-mined ore. Good. But raw. You will learn to use. Magic people will teach." Steve then pointed to Harry's scar. "But... piece. Inside. Bad. Like... hostile mob. Hiding. Waiting. My goal. Remove piece. Before magic people arrive. So you... safe. Truly safe."

​Harry listened, utterly captivated. A game? Steve came from a game? The implications were staggering, yet they explained so much of Steve’s impossible abilities. And the connection Steve made between his 'game' survival and Harry's reality was terrifyingly clear.

​"So... you're teaching me to survive... if things go wrong?" Harry whispered, clutching the teddy bear.

​"Yes," Steve affirmed, his voice firm. "Always prepare. For danger. Find items. Hide. Build. Protect. These skills... universal. Even in your world. Even against... curved threats."

​Harry nodded slowly, taking it all in. The randomness of his accidental magic, the years of feeling like a 'freak,' were suddenly reframed as raw, powerful potential. And Steve, the silent, blocky guardian, wasn't just protecting him now; he was training him. He was equipping Harry for whatever came next, a sense of empowerment blooming in Harry's chest that he had never felt before. The Halloween deadline suddenly felt less like an execution date and more like a pivotal moment, a challenge to prepare for.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: Duality of Survival

​The Halloween deadline, now verbally acknowledged and deeply understood by Harry, became the unspoken pulse of their days. Steve's lessons intensified, becoming a meticulous blend of raw survival and the burgeoning study of innate magical power.

​Their park visits grew more purposeful. Beyond finding items, Steve introduced the concept of navigation. "NORTH. SOUTH. EAST. WEST," he would state in his blocky voice, pointing with a rigid finger, "SUN. MOON. STARS. GUIDES." He explained how the sun's position, the growth of moss on trees (a less reliable but still familiar sign for him), and the simple, undeniable pull of his own internal compass could be used to find one's way. Harry, who had never truly paid attention to anything beyond the next corner of Privet Drive, began to absorb these lessons, his mind mapping the familiar neighborhood into something navigable and strategic.

​Steve also moved on to resource optimization. "THIS," he'd declare, holding up a mangled plastic bottle, "CAN BE... WATER CONTAINER. OR... SMALL TOOL. USE ALL. WASTE NOTHING." He taught Harry how to examine discarded items not for what they were, but for what they could be, how to repair simple breaks, how to improvise. Harry's small collection of 'found items' began to transform from random curiosities into a nascent survival kit, each item now possessing a potential purpose.

​But interwoven with these practical lessons was the more ethereal pursuit: Harry's magic. Steve understood its raw power, having witnessed it first-hand. He needed to classify it, to understand its triggers, to gain some semblance of control over its unpredictable nature.

​"H-Harry," Steve asked one afternoon, back in Dudley's spare room, "Think about... Zoo. Snake. Glass. How? Feel?"

​Harry struggled to explain. "It just... happened. Like a feeling. A really strong feeling, usually when I'm scared or angry, or sometimes really, really want something to happen."

​Steve pondered this. Emotion as a trigger. He pulled out his Book and Quill. "EMOTION. KEY. WE TRY. SMALL THINGS."

​He began rudimentary experiments. He'd place a small, crumpled piece of paper on the floor. "MOVE. PAPER. ANGRY. SAD. WISH. TRY." Harry would stare at the paper, focusing with all his might, trying to summon the feeling. Sometimes, nothing would happen. Other times, the paper would twitch, or subtly float an inch off the ground before dropping. Once, in a moment of intense frustration at his lack of progress, Harry accidentally made a pencil roll across the room with a surprising burst of force.

​Steve observed it all, jotting down notes in his Book and Quill, his blocky script filled with observations and attempts at categorization. He saw parallels to Redstone circuits – an input (emotion), a mechanism (untrained magic), and an output (effect).

He wondered if Harry's magic could be channeled, like Redstone dust guiding a current, or if it was more akin to a random potion effect. The "piece of a person" in Harry's scar, he theorized, might be influencing or even feeding on this raw energy, making its unpredictable surges more dangerous.

​The Dursleys, meanwhile, remained in their uneasy truce, content with their perfectly clean house and the lack of immediate threat.

They paid little attention to Steve and Harry's quiet activities upstairs or their daily trips to the park, assuming the "cosplayer" was merely 'exercising' the 'freak' in some bizarre, harmless way. Their fear of Steve's power, coupled with the allure of a chore-free existence, kept them firmly in line.

​The days continued to tick down. Steve’s voice slowly gained a fraction more flexibility, though it remained distinctly blocky. Harry, increasingly confident and less fearful, absorbed every lesson, every observation. He was no longer just the boy in the cupboard; he was a student of survival, a nascent magician, and the key to understanding a much larger, more dangerous world. The Halloween deadline loomed, a silent, powerful countdown to their inevitable confrontation with the "magic people" and the lurking darkness within Harry himself.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: The Flood of Letters​​

The rhythm of Steve and Harry's secret curriculum was abruptly shattered by the arrival of the first letter. Life at Number Four, Privet Drive, had settled into an uneasy truce: the Dursleys pampered and terrified by their blocky house-elf, and Harry quietly gaining skills under Steve’s tutelage. The Halloween deadline, while ever-present, felt distant, a future problem they were diligently preparing for.

​It was a Tuesday morning, post-breakfast – a breakfast prepared with silent, pixelated perfection by Steve – when the first tremor hit. Dudley was loudly demanding more bacon. Vernon was unfolding his newspaper, and Petunia was sipping her tea, all blissfully unaware of the impending breach in their perfectly ordinary lives.

​Then, the postman arrived. He pushed a handful of letters through the letterbox. Among the usual bills and flyers, a single, peculiar envelope lay on the doormat. It was thick, yellowish parchment, addressed in emerald green ink, with a strange purple seal bearing a coat of arms: a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake.

​"Harry Potter, The Cupboard under the Stairs, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey."

​Petunia shrieked, a sound like a rusty hinge. Vernon's face turned a familiar shade of purple. They knew this script, this seal, this impossible address. Their worst fears, long buried, were rising to the surface.

​But then, Steve saw it. Beneath Harry's letter, almost hidden, was another. Identical in parchment, ink, and seal, but addressed with a strange, almost digital precision:

​"Steve, The Head of Household, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey."

​Steve’s blocky head tilted. Magic people. Here. Now. The Halloween deadline was not just a date; it was an active recruitment cycle. And they had somehow detected him.

​Vernon, regaining his bluster, snatched Harry's letter, tearing it savagely. "No! Not in this house! We swore!" He stomped his foot, his anger eclipsing his fear for a moment. Petunia was equally frantic, snatching Steve's letter the moment Vernon discarded it, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and disbelief. "This is your fault, you... You cosplayer! You brought this upon us!"

​Steve, however, was already in motion. He couldn't allow such crucial documents to be destroyed. With a speed that made the Dursleys yelp, he moved. His blocky hand intercepted Vernon's as the man tried to tear Harry's second letter (which had just landed).

With uncanny precision, he plucked both Harry's letter and his own from Petunia's trembling grasp. He didn't harm them, merely rendered their actions impotent.

​He examined his own letter. How had they known of him? "Head of Household"? Was that how they perceived his role here? It was fascinating.

​The next day, the letters came in a flood. They arrived through every crack, every crevice. They burst from the fireplace, showering the living room with envelopes. They crammed the kitchen, filled the sinks, and pushed through the window frames. The Dursleys shrieked and screamed, sealing every opening, boarding up the letterbox, nailing down windows, but it was futile. The magical world was pushing through, relentlessly, irresistibly.

​Steve watched, absorbing the spectacle. This was magic on a scale he hadn't yet witnessed, a powerful, unwavering force. It confirmed the urgency of his mission. He gathered Harry's letters, and his own, tucking them safely into his inventory.

​Vernon, driven to the brink of madness by the relentless bombardment and the terrifying silence of Steve's presence, made a desperate decision. "We're leaving!" he shrieked, his voice hoarse. "We'll go somewhere they can't find us! Somewhere... away from all this!"

​He dragged Dudley and Petunia to the car. Steve, ever-present, followed with Harry. Vernon drove them to a small, isolated shack on a rocky outcropping in the middle of the sea, accessible only by a crumbling causeway. It was a miserable, cold place, smelling of salt and decay.

​Harry, shivering, looked at Steve. "Do you think they'll find us here?" he asked, his voice small.

​Steve looked at the vast, curved sea, then at the desolate shack.

He felt the familiar pull of the magic, an almost imperceptible connection to Harry, the 'spawn point' of the house stretching its magical tether. He knew, with absolute certainty, they would be found. And that the Halloween deadline was almost upon them.

​The letters have arrived, confirming the Halloween deadline and revealing Steve's own unexpected recognition by the magical world. They are now at the isolated shack.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: The Giant and the Birthday

​The shack on the rock was a miserable existence. The wind howled like a banshee, rattling the flimsy windows. The salt spray misted the air, making everything damp and cold. Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley huddled together, shivering and miserable, convinced they had finally escaped the relentless magical intrusion. Harry, wrapped in Steve's improvised sleeping bag, shivered too, but with a different kind of anticipation. He watched Steve, who stood by the single window, a blocky silhouette against the stormy sky, his attention fixed on the churning sea.

​Steve knew this was futile. The "magic people" had found Harry at the zoo, had flooded the Dursleys' house with letters. A flimsy shack in the middle of a storm-tossed sea wouldn't deter them.

His internal clock, attuned to the very fabric of this world, ticked down the moments. Midnight. Halloween. Harry's eleventh birthday. The deadline.

​He glanced at Harry, who, despite the bleak surroundings, held a faint spark of hope in his eyes. Steve had trained him as best he could for finding resources and evading, but nothing could truly prepare a child for the sheer strangeness of magic.

​The storm outside seemed to gather strength, hammering against the shack. Rain lashed the windows, and the wind screamed. Then, precisely as the minute hand of Vernon's watch (which he kept checking nervously) finally clicked onto the twelve, marking midnight, a colossal BANG shook the entire shack.

​The door, already flimsy, was ripped clean off its hinges with a tremendous splintering sound. It slammed against the opposite wall, leaving a gaping hole in the raging storm. Standing in the doorway, framed by the furious elements, was a giant of a man. He filled the entire frame, his shaggy black hair and beard almost completely obscuring his face. He had twinkling black eyes that seemed to glint despite the darkness. He carried a large, flowery umbrella.

​"Couldn't make us a cup o' tea, could yeh? It's not been an easy journey," the giant rumbled, his voice like grinding boulders.

​Vernon Dursley, his face a ghastly white, scrambled to his feet. "I warn you!" he shrieked, fumbling under a coat. He pulled out a shotgun, its cold metal glinting menacingly. "I'm armed, you… You great oaf! Get out of my house!"

​​The giant barely spared him a glance. "Oh, for goodness' sake, Vernon, put that away before yeh hurt yerself." With a casual flick of his flowery umbrella, he tapped the shotgun.

​The metal, which Vernon had clutched with such desperate resolve, suddenly bent like rubber. It twisted and buckled in his hands, turning into a useless, knotted piece of scrap metal before Vernon could even react. The shotgun was ruined, transformed by a casual display of immense, effortless magic.

​Steve watched, his blocky form unmoving. This was a "magic person." Powerful. Unpredictable. And completely unfazed by conventional threats. Vernon's pathetic attempt at violence was dismissed with contemptuous ease. Steve's own assessment of this individual registered: High Power Level. Non-hostile towards Target (Harry). Potential Ally. Source of Knowledge.

​The giant stepped fully into the shack, his gaze sweeping over the cowering Dursleys, then settling, with a soft, warm expression, on Harry. His eyes flickered to Steve, a moment of surprise in their depths, quickly masked. He had clearly not expected a "cosplayer" here.

​"Harry," the giant's voice softened, "a very happy birthday to yeh. Got summat for yeh here – I mighta sat on it at some point, but it'll taste all right." He produced a slightly squashed, chocolate cake from his overcoat pocket, adorned with "Happy Birthday Harry" in green icing.

​Harry stared, utterly speechless. A giant. A magical cake.

​Steve, however, had another priority. He stepped forward, his blocky feet thudding softly on the wooden floor. He extended his hand, holding out his own intact, unread letter. His voice, a low, blocky rumble, was clear despite its unique texture.

​"You. Magic person. Name? My letter. Explanation. Please."

​The giant's bushy eyebrows rose slightly at Steve's directness and his peculiar voice. His eyes, however, seemed to understand.

"Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts," he boomed, a friendly smile spreading across his face. "And looks like yeh've got a letter for Hogwarts too, eh? Never seen one addressed to... well, to a cosplayer before. Interesting." He winked. "But first, Harry, we've got things to talk about."

​Hagrid turned his full attention to Harry, his large frame somehow making the already cramped shack feel even smaller. He gestured towards the squashed cake. "First, happy birthday. I know it's not much, but I did me best."

​Harry, still reeling from the sudden appearance of a giant who had effortlessly bent a shotgun, managed a weak smile. He took the cake, his fingers tracing the slightly smudged green icing. "Thank you," he whispered.

​Hagrid then lowered himself onto a rickety stool, his weight making it groan in protest. He looked at Harry, his kind eyes filled with a mixture of warmth and a hint of sadness. "Harry," he began, his voice softening, "I reckon you're wonderin' what all this is about, eh? The letters, the... well, me."

​Harry nodded, his gaze fixed on Hagrid's face.

​"Well, Harry," Hagrid continued, "You're a wizard."

​The word hung in the air, thick and impossible. Harry stared, his mouth agape. A wizard? Him? It was more unbelievable than a blocky man appearing out of nowhere.

​"A what?" Harry managed to whisper.

​"A wizard," Hagrid repeated, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "And a thumpin' good one, I'd wager, once you're trained up a bit. You're goin' to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

​He pulled out a slightly crumpled version of Harry's letter, the one Vernon had tried to tear. "This here's yer acceptance letter. It explains everything."

​Harry took the letter, his fingers trembling. He read the words, his eyes widening with each line. Hogwarts. Magic. A school for wizards. It was like a dream, a fantastical escape from the grim reality of Privet Drive.

​While Harry absorbed this impossible revelation, Steve stepped forward again, his blocky form radiating a quiet urgency. He held out his own letter, his voice, still a blocky rumble, cutting through the stunned silence.

​"Hagrid," Steve stated, the name sounding strange and angular in his voice. "My letter. Explanation. Please."

​Hagrid turned his gaze to Steve, a flicker of surprise still in his eyes. He took the letter, his brow furrowing slightly as he read the address: "Steve, The Head of Household."

​"Well, I'll be," Hagrid muttered, scratching his beard. "Never seen a letter like this before. Hogwarts doesn't usually send invitations to... cosplayers." He paused, then looked at Steve with a thoughtful expression. "But... this is magic. And magic does strange things. You're clearly... connected to Harry. The letter says 'Head of Household.' That's a... well, it's a position of responsibility. Protection."

​He looked at Steve, his gaze assessing. "You're not a wizard, are you? I can usually tell. But you're... something. Powerful. Protective. And clearly not from around here."

​Hagrid then opened Steve's letter, his eyes scanning the contents. His eyebrows rose higher and higher as he read. He looked back at Steve, a mixture of curiosity and concern in his eyes.

​"This... this is unusual," Hagrid said slowly. "This letter... it's not an invitation. It's a... a request. A plea, almost. From Hogwarts itself. They know about you. They know you're not magical, but they recognize your... your power. Your connection to Harry. And they're asking for your help."

​He looked at Harry, then back at Steve. "This letter... it mentions something... something dark. Something inside Harry. And it says... you might be the only one who can help him."

​Hagrid looked at Steve, his kind eyes now filled with a deep, almost pleading urgency. "They say... You have a unique perspective. A... a different kind of strength. And that you might be able to do something... something no one else can."

​Steve’s blocky form remained still, but internally, his processors whirred with unprecedented speed. Confirmation. They know. They know about the piece. They need me for this. This was the validation of his primary goal, the true reason he had been placed here. The Halloween deadline, Harry's eleventh birthday, was precisely when this hidden world revealed itself and, by extension, acknowledged the deep-seated problem within Harry.

​He stepped closer to Hagrid, his gaze unwavering. His voice, still like chiseled stone, held a new, intense focus.

​"Hagrid," Steve stated, cutting to the core of his mission. "Piece of person. In Harry's scar. You know. What is? How to remove?"

​Hagrid's bushy eyebrows shot up even higher. He blinked, surprised by Steve's immediate and precise terminology. "The... the piece of a person in his scar?" he repeated slowly, his gaze flicking from Steve to Harry, who was still wide-eyed, trying to process everything. "Well, I'll be. You know about that, do yeh? Most folks don't even know it exists."

​He sighed, a deep, rumbling sound. "Right then. Best to get it all out in the open, eh, Harry? No point keepin' secrets now." He looked at Harry, his expression grim.

​"Harry," Hagrid began, his voice softer, "Yer mum and dad, Lily and James Potter... they were great wizards. Truly great. And they were murdered by the darkest wizard of all time. Lord... Lord Voldemort." He shuddered as he spoke the name.

​The Dursleys, huddled silently in their corner, flinched violently at the name, as if struck.

​"He tried to kill you too, Harry," Hagrid continued, looking solemn. "When you were just a baby. Used a curse. The Killing Curse. But it... It rebounded. Left yeh that scar. And it killed him, or so we thought."

​Hagrid leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial rumble, though every word was clearly audible in the small shack.

"What yer... what Steve here is talkin' about... it's a bit o' soul. Voldemort's soul. When that curse rebounded, a fragment of his shattered soul ripped itself off, and it latched onto the only living thing it could find... you, Harry."

​Harry's hand flew instinctively to his lightning-bolt scar. His face was pale, his eyes wide with horror and disbelief. A piece of the evil wizard who killed his parents, inside him? It was a nightmare made real.

​Steve processed this information. "Soul fragment. Hostile. Parasitic." It aligned perfectly with his understanding of the "piece of a person." "Voldemort" was the source. This confirmed his primary objective was indeed critical.

​"So," Hagrid concluded, looking at Steve, "Hogwarts doesn't know how that bit o' soul got there, or how to get it out without hurtin' Harry. It's too deeply embedded. But yer letter... it implies you might have a way. A way beyond our magic."

​Steve nodded, his internal resolve hardening. He finally had a name for the entity, a clearer picture of its origin. This task was monumental, but clearer than ever.

​"I remove." Steve stated, his voice firm, conveying absolute determination. "I find way. Before. Magic people. Teach Harry."

​Hagrid gave a shaky smile. "That's good to hear, Steve. Mighty good." He then clapped his hands together, a sound like two logs hitting. "Right then, that's enough of that heavy stuff for now. First things first, Harry, we need to get yeh sorted for Hogwarts. And that means a trip to Diagon Alley."

​He pulled Harry's official acceptance letter from his pocket again, along with a list of supplies. "Books, robes, a wand... Oh, and a proper animal, not like the boa constrictor at the zoo, eh?" he chuckled, giving a quick, almost imperceptible glance at the Dursleys, who shivered in terrified silence. "We'll head out first thing in the mornin'. Lots to do before term starts."

​The Dursleys remained motionless, utterly forgotten in their corner, irrelevant in the face of giants, magic, and the revelation of dark souls. Their world had shattered, and in its place, a new, bewildering reality had emerged, guided by a half-giant and a blocky, silent protector.

​Steve now has a full understanding of the soul fragment. Hagrid is taking Harry to Diagon Alley.

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: Diagon Alley and a Familiar Soul

"Right then, that's enough of that heavy stuff for now. First things first, Harry, we need to get yeh sorted for Hogwarts. And that means a trip to Diagon Alley." Hagrid clapped his hands, a sound like two logs hitting. "We'll head out first thing in the mornin'. Lots to do before term starts."

Steve gave a firm nod. "I go. With Harry." His voice, though still blocky, left no room for argument. He was Harry's protector, and now, officially, recognized as "Head of Household" by Hogwarts itself. He wouldn't let Harry out of his sight.

Hagrid just grinned. "Figured you would, big fella. More the merrier." He gave a dismissive wave towards the cowering Dursleys, who seemed to have shrunk into the very fabric of the shack, utterly irrelevant now.

The next morning, the journey from the isolated shack was swift, though Steve noted Hagrid's peculiar method of transport (a small boat that seemed to glide impossibly fast across the choppy water without a motor). Soon, they were back on solid ground, amidst the bewildering bustle of a large city. Steve's internal mapping system struggled to process the sheer density and curvature of the human architecture.

Hagrid led them through a grimy pub called the Leaky Cauldron. The crowd parted respectfully for Hagrid, their eyes briefly flicking to Harry and then, with a touch more curiosity, to Steve, the tall, blocky figure in what looked like an oddly authentic "cosplay." Steve’s presence here was truly like a fish out of water, a perfectly square peg in a world of round holes. Yet, the other magic people didn't pay him much mind. A few double-takes, a whispered comment about "another one of those muggle fads," but no hostility, no real alarm. It seemed his presence, while unusual, was somehow dismissed or simply not fully comprehended by most.

They passed through the back of the pub, through a brick wall that, at Hagrid's touch, opened into a bustling, vibrant street. Diagon Alley. It exploded into view: shops piled high with cauldrons, quills, spell books, and glittering robes. Witches and wizards bustled everywhere, their conversations filled with impossible words like "apparition" and "floo powder." The air hummed with a palpable magical energy.

Harry stared, utterly awestruck. Steve, too, was taking it all in. This was the world Harry belonged to, the world he needed to navigate. This was where he would learn the magic Steve needed to understand, and eventually, counter the "piece of a person."

As Hagrid guided them through the crowds, explaining the various shops, a nervous man with a perpetually twitching eye and a large, ill-fitting turban bumped into Harry.

"P-P-Potter," the man stammered, his voice reedy. "C-can't tell you how p-pleased I am to m-meet you."

Steve's internal alarm blared. Danger. Hostile presence detected. Signature matches 'piece of person.' His blocky eyes narrowed, focusing on the back of Quirrell's turban. It was subtle, but the magical signature, the very essence of the "piece," resonated from there. It was unmistakably connected to the one in Harry's scar, a larger, more complete version. The main body of the hostile entity.

He knew. He absolutely knew. Quirrell had the rest of Voldemort's soul. This was the source of the evil that had plagued Harry. His mind screamed to communicate, to warn Harry, to confront Quirrell right then and there.

He tried. He really tried. He subtly nudged Harry, his blocky hand pushing lightly on the boy's shoulder, his gaze fixed pointedly on the back of Quirrell's head. He emitted a low, rumbling sound, more forceful than his usual measured words. "Danger. There. Back of the head. Bad."

But Harry, overwhelmed by the sensory overload of Diagon Alley and the excitement of meeting a professor, merely glanced at Steve. "Are you alright, Steve? You sound a bit... growly."

Quirrell, meanwhile, only flinched slightly at Steve's low rumble, his twitching eye darting to the blocky figure before quickly returning his nervous gaze to Hagrid. He seemed to dismiss Steve as an oddity.

Steve gritted his teeth. He couldn't make them understand. Not yet. His communication was too rudimentary for such complex, nuanced warnings. He couldn't risk openly attacking a professor in the middle of Diagon Alley, not when Harry needed access to Hogwarts and its knowledge.

The showdown with Quirrell, he realized, would have to happen later. Likely at Hogwarts. But it didn't stop him from trying. As Hagrid ushered them away, Steve continued to cast warning glances at Quirrell's turban, his blocky voice murmuring, "Danger. Very close." The wizarding world, it seemed, was surprisingly oblivious to what lurked beneath a common head covering.

Steve continued to cast warning glances at Quirrell's turban, his blocky voice murmuring, "Danger. Very close." The wizarding world, it seemed, was surprisingly oblivious to what lurked beneath a common head covering. He subtly shifted his position, trying to place himself between Harry and Quirrell whenever their paths seemed to converge. He focused his internal sensors, constantly scanning Quirrell's magical signature, ready to intercept any direct threat.

But Quirrell didn't follow. He merely offered another nervous stammer to Hagrid about teaching next term and then seemed to drift away into the bustling crowd. Steve's instincts, however, told him this wasn't a retreat, but a strategic withdrawal. Quirrell knew Steve had recognized him, and likely understood Steve's current inability to communicate the full scope of the threat. It seems Quirrell had future plans for Harry and himself, plans that didn't involve direct confrontation in the middle of Diagon Alley. This meant Steve would have to remain vigilant.

Hagrid, oblivious to the silent, tense exchange, steered them towards a magnificent, snow-white building that towered over the other shops. "Right then, first things first," Hagrid boomed, "Gringotts! Best place to get yer money, Harry."

Gringotts Wizarding Bank. Steve’s eyes widened, processing the architecture. It was grand, formidable, built from gleaming white stone, almost like a massive, intricate structure from his own world, but with an impossible, curved elegance. Inside, it was even more impressive: a vast, marble hall, filled with busy, goblin tellers. Their sharp, shrewd faces and long fingers clicked at ledgers.

"Goblins," Hagrid whispered to Harry. "Don't mess with 'em. Very sharp. Very careful with money."

Steve felt a strange kinship with the goblins' meticulous nature and their focus on order. He also noted the formidable security. This was a fortress.

After Harry had sorted out his vault (a surprisingly large pile of gold, silver, and bronze coins that made Harry gasp), Hagrid led them deeper into the bank's labyrinthine vaults. They climbed aboard a small, rickety minecart that shot off down twisting, subterranean tracks at dizzying speed.

Steve found himself momentarily disoriented by the sheer velocity and the sharp, un-Minecraftian turns. Yet, there was an exhilarating familiarity to the speed and the sense of mining deep underground. A Minecart! It wasn't one of his own craftable versions, but the concept was identical, and surprisingly fun. He held his blocky form rigid, his internal systems analyzing the friction, the momentum, the structural integrity of the tracks. He approved.

They finally jolted to a halt before a particular vault, smaller and older than Harry's. Hagrid presented a key, and the heavy door swung open. Inside, illuminated by Hagrid's lantern, was nothing but a small, dusty pouch.

"Here we are," Hagrid said, carefully picking up the rough, ordinary-looking pouch. He secured it in a small pouch and tucked it deep inside his coat. He didn't offer any explanation to Harry, or to Steve.

Steve, however, felt a profound significance from the item. It wasn't glowing, or vibrating with overt magic, but his perception, his unique way of interpreting the world, recognized its immense importance. It registered in his internal inventory of knowledge as an Artifact: High Value, Quest-Related, Potential End-Game Item. It resonated with the same fundamental significance as a Crafting Table was to him – not powerful in itself, but a key to something far greater. He didn't know what it was, but he knew it was vital. And given Quirrell's presence in Diagon Alley, Steve felt a cold certainty that whatever was in that pouch was, it was deeply connected to Voldemort and the fragment within Harry.

He logged the information. The pouch. Quirrell. The piece. The Halloween deadline. All pieces of a puzzle he was rapidly assembling. His protective instincts screamed vigilance.

After the mysterious stop at Gringotts, Hagrid, seemingly satisfied, steered them towards the most anticipated shop: Ollivanders. The shop looked ancient and dusty, a single wand resting on a faded purple cushion in the window.

Inside, the air hummed with a quiet, expectant magic. Thousands of narrow boxes were stacked from floor to ceiling. A pale-eyed old man, Mr. Ollivander emerged from the shadows, his voice a whispery rustle.

"Ah, Mr. Potter. I've been expecting you," he said, his silver eyes fixed on Harry. "And you, too, I presume?" His gaze flickered to Steve, a rare spark of genuine curiosity replacing his usual serene focus. "A very unusual presence, indeed."

Harry, still reeling from the events of the day, was quickly swept into the magical process of wand selection. Wand after wand was offered, only to be rejected by strange, subtle reactions. A shower of sparks, a burst of heat, a scattering of boxes.

Finally, after a flurry of attempts, Ollivander handed Harry a familiar-looking wand. "Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple," he murmured. "And curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother gave you that scar."

As Harry felt the surge of warmth, a burst of golden sparks erupted from the wand, illuminating the dusty shop. He had found his wand.

But then, Ollivander turned his attention fully to Steve. "And now for you, Mr... Head of Household," he mused, a faint, perplexed frown on his face. "This is most peculiar. A wand... appeared in my shop just this morning. With an urgency I have never felt in all my years. It pulsed with a singular purpose, demanding to be given to a 'cosplayer'."

Ollivander reached under his counter and produced a box unlike any other. It wasn't long and narrow, but perfectly cubic, like one of Steve's own inventory blocks, though crafted from what appeared to be ancient, gnarled oak. Inside, nestled on crimson velvet, was a wand that mirrored the box. It wasn't a slender, curved stick; it was a cubic wand, a perfect, rectangular prism of dark wood, about twelve inches long, with blunt, angular ends.

"Curious," Ollivander whispered, touching the wand. "It is made of Obsidian, a substance I did not even know could form a wand, let alone be found in this realm. And its core..." he leaned closer, his eyes distant, "its core speaks of pure, raw energy. Untamed, yet precise. It feels like... the very essence of creation itself, distilled."

He held it out to Steve. "I believe this is yours."

Steve took the cubic wand. The moment his blocky fingers wrapped around its square form, a profound resonance surged through him. It wasn't the subtle warmth Harry felt; it was a familiar, powerful thrum, like Redstone circuitry activating, like bedrock vibrating with unyielding strength. This wand felt right. It felt like an extension of his own existence, perfectly aligned with his cubic reality.

He could feel the raw energy Ollivander described, not magical in the wizarding sense, but something deeper, more fundamental. It resonated with the stone from Gringotts, with the faint signature of the "piece of a person" he had sensed from Quirrell. This wand was not for casting spells of charm or transfiguration, he instinctively knew. This wand was for structure. For precision. For interaction with the very fabric of existence itself.

He felt a sudden, intense urge to test it against the subtle dark magic he'd detected from Quirrell. He pointed the cubic wand, almost imperceptibly, in the general direction Quirrell had last been seen, a flicker of his unique energy running through it. No visible spell, no flashy lights, but a subtle ping echoed in his internal senses, confirming his assessment. Quirrell's dark magic registered as a dissonant chord against the pure, crystalline hum of his new wand.

Ollivander watched Steve, his pale eyes narrowing. "A formidable connection," he murmured, more to himself than to them. "Very formidable. I confess, Mr... Head of Household, your magic, or whatever it is, is beyond my understanding. But it is ancient. And very, very powerful."

The other wizards in the shop, captivated by Harry's excitement over his new wand, barely spared Steve a glance, still dismissing him as a quirky, overly dedicated cosplayer. They remained oblivious to the silent, cubic force that had just found its counterpart, ready to shape the very foundation of Harry Potter's new world.

Steve now held his cubic wand, a unique extension of his block-world being. As Ollivander began wrapping Harry's wand, Steve quietly, instinctively, tested a theory. He let go of his new obsidian wand. It fell, hitting the dusty floor with a soft thud. Before Harry or Ollivander could react, it vanished with a faint, familiar shwip sound, only to reappear instantly in Steve's inventory.

Good. Very good, Steve thought, his internal systems registering the confirmation. Cannot be lost. Cannot be taken. Permanently bound to self. This was a critical advantage, a guaranteed weapon and tool, always accessible.

Their next stop, Hagrid announced, was for robes. "Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions," he boomed, ushering them into a bustling shop filled with flowing fabrics and measuring tapes that worked on their own. Harry was quickly directed to a platform where a stern witch began taking his measurements.

Steve stood back, observing. He analyzed the various robes hanging on display: the deep black fabric, the simple yet elegant cut, the pointed hoods. He mentally processed their form, their dimensions, their practical utility. He particularly noted the Hogwarts uniform robes, the simple black ones that Harry was being fitted for.

As Harry twirled awkwardly on his platform, muttering about having to wear them all the time, Steve felt a strange, internal shift. It was not a crafting recipe, not a material transformation, but an adaptive integration. His current 'skin' – his familiar blue tunic and brown trousers – shimmered imperceptibly.

His clothing began to change. The blue fabric deepened, shifting to the same deep black as Harry's new school robes. His brown trousers elongated and narrowed, merging seamlessly into the flowing lines of a wizard's traditional attire. The squareness of his form remained, but now, he was clad in a perfectly tailored, cubic set of Hogwarts robes. The fabric flowed and draped around his rigid frame in a way that defied conventional physics, making him look like a living, walking pixelated sprite.

More importantly, Steve felt a subtle, almost imperceptible enhancement. It wasn't the metallic clank of iron armor, nor the heavy resilience of diamond. This was different. A gentle, humming energy settled around him, a passive defense that felt perfectly attuned to the magical currents of this world. His internal display updated: Armor: 1. Magic Protection: +10. It was an enchanted item, a subtle layer of magical resistance, specifically against hostile enchantments or direct magical attacks. It would likely protect him against stray curses or unexpected magical blowback.

Harry, turning from his own fitting, gasped. "Steve! You're wearing robes too!" He pointed, utterly amazed. "They look... blocky!"

Madam Malkin, who had been focused on a particularly fussy customer, merely glanced over. Her eyes, accustomed to the endless oddities of the wizarding world, dismissed Steve's transformation with a casual wave. "Oh, dear. Another one of those muggle-borns trying to fit in with their strange fancies," she muttered, clearly assuming Steve's new attire was a bizarre custom-made 'cosplay' outfit he'd had commissioned. "Well, as long as it's not disrupting the magic, I suppose." Her dismissal was a testament to the wizarding world's insular nature and their profound lack of understanding regarding anything truly outside their sphere.

Steve, however, understood perfectly. He had integrated. He was prepared. The magic protection felt like a seamless part of him, an additional layer of defense against the unseen threats of this world – including, perhaps, the subtle influence of the "piece of a person" if it tried to affect him directly.

Their shopping spree continued. A heavy set of standard spellbooks, a glittering brass telescope, scales, phials, and a sturdy cauldron. All were procured, paid for, and neatly stored in Steve's inventory, ready to be "placed" in Harry's trunk at home.

As they emerged from Diagon Alley back into the mundane muggle world, Steve felt a profound sense of accomplishment. Harry was equipped. He had a wand, books, and the basic tools for his new life. And Steve had his own new tools: an unbreakable, loyal cubic wand, and now, a subtle, magic-resistant armor. The Halloween deadline was approaching fast, but they were ready.

Chapter Text

Chapter 12: Adaptive Form and Resurgent Dursleys

​As Hagrid led them from the bustling, magical chaos of Diagon Alley, through the quiet, unassuming pub, and out onto the mundane streets of London, Steve felt a subtle, familiar shift. It wasn't the material transformation of crafting, but an internal recalibration. The flowing black Hogwarts robes, so perfectly draped around his blocky form just moments ago, rippled and dissolved. His iconic blue tunic and brown trousers snapped back into place, his signature pixelated skin now fully visible.

​Harry, who had been excitedly chattering about wands and owls, blinked. "Steve! Your robes are gone! You're back to your old clothes!"

​Steve nodded, his internal display confirming the change. His appearance had reverted to his default 'skin' – his established persona for the mundane world. Yet, the Magic Protection +10 enchantment, a subtle hum of energy, persisted beneath his ordinary clothes. It was a useful adaptive mechanism, allowing him to blend seamlessly back into the non-magical environment without revealing the hidden powers that protected him. No wasted time on changing clothes, no drawing unnecessary attention from "non-magic people."

​The journey back to Privet Drive was quiet. Hagrid departed with a final wave and a promise to see Harry at Hogwarts. As Steve and Harry stepped into Number Four, the familiar scent of stale cabbage and suppressed anger hit them. The Dursleys were waiting.

​The absence of explosions, the lack of overt magical chaos from their trip to Diagon Alley, seemed to have emboldened them. Or perhaps, the sheer competence of their blocky house-elf had simply made them complacent. They no longer cowered, but puffed themselves up, regaining a measure of their lost authority.

​"Well! Took your time, didn't you?" Vernon grunted, his walrus mustache twitching. He glanced at Harry, then at Steve, his eyes momentarily flicking over Steve's now-familiar 'cosplay' attire, seemingly forgetting the robes. "And what did you do with all that... stuff?" he demanded, clearly referring to Harry's school supplies, which Steve had seamlessly absorbed into his inventory.

​Petunia stepped forward, her horse-like face twisted into a familiar sneer as she looked at Harry. "Don't think you're special, boy. Still got chores to do, despite your... fancy school." She then turned to Steve, a rare, direct order in her voice. "And you! The windows need cleaning! I expect them sparkling!"

​Steve's internal assessment registered: Threat Level: Low. Compliance: Optional. Enforcement: Required. Their bravery was misplaced. His purpose remained Harry's protection, and ensuring their cooperation was part of that.

​He didn't pull out the TNT. Not yet. That was for true recalcitrance. Instead, he simply looked at Petunia, his gaze unwavering. Then, without a word, he moved towards the nearest window. With a single, precise sweep of his hand, the window glass shimmered, and any trace of grime, dust, or smudges vanished, leaving it utterly spotless. He then moved to the next, repeating the impossible feat.

​Vernon and Petunia watched, their mouths falling open. The effortless, instantaneous perfection of the task, the sheer un-human speed and efficiency, was a chilling reminder of the power they had foolishly begun to dismiss. Their bravado deflated like punctured balloons. They shuffled back, muttering, and retreated into the living room, their orders forgotten.

​"Right," Steve's blocky voice rumbled to Harry later that evening, as the boy sorted through his new textbooks, still buzzing from the day's revelations. "Diagon Alley. Done. Resources acquired. Now. More learning. More preparation."

​The remaining weeks of summer passed swiftly, marked by a continued blend of routine and intense training. Steve continued his lessons on advanced survival: basic navigation, focusing on finding north without a compass, resource identification beyond his dropped cubes (identifying edible plants, safe water sources, though he couldn't yet test these practically), and improvised concealment. Harry, now understanding the deadly serious implications of these skills, absorbed everything like a sponge.

​Simultaneously, Steve continued his observations of Harry's magic. He encouraged Harry to focus on small, controlled bursts of accidental magic, trying to channel his emotions towards specific, simple outcomes. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't, but the understanding grew between them. Steve logged every surge of power, every flicker of energy from Harry's scar, patiently analyzing.

​The Dursleys kept their distance, cowed once more by Steve's quiet, infallible efficiency. They no longer attempted to give orders, preferring to enjoy their effortless lives as long as the "cosplayer" kept the freaks and explosions at bay.

​As the final day of August arrived, the letters for Hogwarts piled neatly on the kitchen table (Steve had ensured they were delivered correctly this time). Harry, now carrying a wand concealed within his clothes, a knowledge of survival techniques, and a protector whose presence made the world feel strangely safer, was ready. Ready for Hogwarts. Ready for magic. Ready for the looming confrontation with the "piece of a person."

Chapter Text

Chapter 13: Platform 9 3/4 and Train Ride Conversations

​The final days of August bled into September, each one a stark reminder of the approaching deadline. Harry’s trunk, filled with new robes, spellbooks, and a gleaming cauldron, stood ready in Dudley’s spare room. Hedwig, the snowy owl Hagrid had helped Harry acquire, hooted softly from her cage, her bright eyes filled with intelligent curiosity. And often, by Steve’s blocky feet, lay Grimm, a wolf.

​Grimm was no ordinary wolf. Like Steve, he was a perfect, four-legged cuboid of white and grey pixels, his tail wagging with the familiar blocky animation Steve knew so well. A simple leather collar, just as blocky, bore the word "STEVE" etched onto it. Most people, even the Dursleys, simply dismissed Grimm as part of Steve's bizarre "cosplay" – a robotic dog, perhaps, or an elaborate puppet. They paid little attention to the wolf’s silent, watchful loyalty, or the way his blocky head would tilt in perfect synchronization with Steve’s. To Harry, though, Grimm was a comforting presence, another silent protector in his strange new world.

​On September 1st, the atmosphere in Privet Drive was thick with a mixture of tension and suppressed excitement. The Dursleys, having resigned themselves to Harry’s departure and the continued (and immensely convenient) presence of their blocky house-elf, offered no resistance.

​"Right then, you two," Vernon grunted, his face still purple, but lacking its usual conviction. "Out with you. Don't want to miss your... train."

​Steve, still in his default blue tunic and brown trousers, with Grimm padding silently beside him, nodded. "Train. Yes." He knew the destination: King's Cross Station.

​The journey was uneventful. Steve had ensured all of Harry’s belongings, including Hedwig’s cage, were safely secured in his inventory. As they arrived at the bustling, curved chaos of the London train station, Steve found himself adjusting his senses to the overwhelming number of "non-magic people." Grimm, surprisingly, drew less attention than Steve himself; most people assumed he was a large, well-behaved, if unusually stiff, dog.

​They followed Hagrid’s instructions, searching for Platform 9 and Platform 10. Harry looked increasingly anxious, scanning the numbers, wondering how a magical train could simply vanish.

​"Harry. Listen." Steve's blocky voice cut through the noise, calm and steady. "Trust. Instructions. Through here." He pointed, his blocky finger indicating the solid brick wall between platforms nine and ten.

​Harry, who had come to implicitly trust Steve, took a deep breath. With Steve at his side, and Grimm a silent, pixelated shadow behind them, Harry pushed his trolley towards the barrier.

​For a moment, it seemed they would hit the solid brick. Then, the impossible happened. The wall shimmered, and they passed through seamlessly, emerging onto a hidden platform.

​Platform 9 3/4.

​Steam billowed from a magnificent scarlet steam engine – the Hogwarts Express. Witches and wizards, old and young, bustled about, saying their goodbyes, their laughter and chatter filling the air. Owls hooted from cages, cats stalked through legs, and excited children dragged trunks towards the train doors.

​Harry gasped, his face alight with wonder. This was it. This was his true beginning.

​Steve surveyed the platform, his senses sharp. He scanned the crowd, looking for any familiar, unsettling signatures. The magic here was immense, vibrant, but he detected no immediate signs of Quirrell, no lurking "piece of a person." Not yet. This was a safe zone, for now.

​As Harry, with Steve's guidance, found an empty compartment and began to settle in, Steve watched the crowds for any final threats. He saw a family of red-headed wizards, loud and boisterous, one of whom looked about Harry's age. He noted their friendly aura, but his gaze remained alert.

​Soon, a whistle shrieked, and the train began to pull away, slowly at first, then picking up speed. Harry waved frantically from the window, a wide, excited grin on his face. He was off to Hogwarts. Steve had ensured his safe passage.

​Now, Steve was left on the platform, his purpose here seemingly concluded. But the Halloween deadline for the "piece of a person" was still looming, and Harry was entering a world where that threat lurked within the very walls of his new school. Steve knew his mission was far from over.

​The whistle shrieked, and the Hogwarts Express began to pull away. Harry waved frantically from the window, a wide, excited grin on his face. Steve, watching from Platform 9 3/4, felt a moment of satisfaction. Harry was on his way. But the mission, the "piece of a person," was at Hogwarts.

​Steve couldn't stay on the platform. His place was with Harry. He cast a quick glance around. No one seemed to be paying him much attention, still dismissing him as a harmless oddity. He made a decision. His blocky form shimmered, and with a silent shwip, he dissolved into pixels, reappearing almost instantly inside the Hogwarts Express.

​He materialized discreetly in the corridor, a few compartments away from Harry's, his robes again replacing his muggle attire. Grimm, his blocky wolf, solidified beside him, panting softly. No one seemed to notice his impossible entry. The magic of the train, or perhaps the sheer wonder in the air, seemed to cover his unique method of travel.

​He quickly located Harry's compartment. The door was ajar, and inside, Harry was already surrounded by new faces. Steve slipped in, Grimm padding silently behind him, and settled into a corner, making himself as unobtrusive as a cubic person could be.

​Harry was chatting animatedly with two other children. One was a boy with flaming red hair and a smattering of freckles, looking slightly overwhelmed but friendly. This must be Ron Weasley, Steve deduced, having overheard Hagrid mention the family. The other was a girl with bushy brown hair and rather large front teeth, who spoke with an air of immense confidence and knowledge. Hermione Granger, Steve's internal systems cataloged, remembering her from the book lists.

​"Are you Harry Potter?" Ron blurted out, staring wide-eyed.

​Harry, still trying to process his new reality, nodded, a little shyly.

​Hermione, meanwhile, was already launching into a rapid-fire introduction of herself and her exhaustive knowledge of Hogwarts. "Have either of you seen a toad? Neville's lost one. And has anyone got a copy of Hogwarts, A History? I've memorized most of it, of course, but it's always good to check."

​She then noticed Steve, who had been observing silently. Her eyes, sharper than most, widened slightly. "Oh! You're... with Harry, aren't you? The one everyone was calling a cosplayer at Diagon Alley? Are you his guardian?"

​Steve nodded, his blocky voice a low rumble. "Yes. Guardian. Steve."

​Ron, who seemed to have momentarily forgotten Steve in his excitement over Harry, now gawked. "Blimey! You can talk! You look like... like one of those blokes from that muggle game, my dad saw it on telly once. Mine...craft?"

​Steve gave another firm nod. "Correct. Minecraft." The word, now fully integrated into his understanding of his own existence, felt natural.

​Hermione, ever the logical one, squinted at him. "But how are you... blocky? Is it a very advanced Transfiguration spell? Or an illusion?"

​Steve, understanding the futility of a full explanation, merely gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. "My form."

​Harry, eager to introduce his protector, jumped in. "Steve's amazing! He came to get me from the Dursleys. And he knows things. He taught me how to find stuff, and how to... well, how to not get seen." He glanced at Steve, a silent agreement passing between them about not revealing the full extent of Steve’s training, especially the “piece of a person” detail.

​Ron, meanwhile, was fascinated by Grimm, who had settled quietly by Steve's feet. "Is that a dog? He looks like... he's made of squares!"

​"Grimm." Steve stated simply, giving the wolf a pat.

​As the train rattled on, Harry, Ron, and Hermione quickly fell into easy conversation, a natural formation of companionship. Harry, for the first time, felt truly accepted, surrounded by others who understood (or were at least open to) his strangeness. Steve sat quietly, observing his new companions. Ron was loyal, a little reckless, but good-hearted. Hermione was intelligent, logical, and incredibly well-informed – a potential source of valuable data.

​His internal systems, ever vigilant, continued to monitor. He could feel the faint, unsettling echo of the "piece of a person" somewhere within the train's vast length, a subtle dissonance against the cheerful chatter. He knew Quirrell was on this train, likely already at Hogwarts. His mission was far from over. Harry had new friends, but he still needed protection, and the "piece" still needed to be removed.

​

​Steve sat quietly, observing his new companions. Ron was loyal, a little reckless, but good-hearted. Hermione was intelligent, logical, and incredibly well-informed – a potential source of valuable data. His internal systems, ever vigilant, continued to monitor. He could feel the faint, unsettling echo of the "piece of a person" somewhere within the train's vast length, a subtle dissonance against the cheerful chatter. He knew Quirrell was on this train, likely already at Hogwarts. His mission was far from over. Harry had new friends, but he still needed protection, and the "piece" still needed to be removed.

​As the train rattled on, Ron and Hermione, their initial awe at Steve's presence beginning to wear off, grew bolder with their questions. Hermione, ever the curious one, leaned forward.

​"So, Steve," she began, her brow furrowed in thought, "you said you're from a game called Minecraft? What was the very first thing you thought when you... well, appeared here?"

​Steve considered this, his blocky head tilting. "Cold." he rumbled, his voice still that distinct, pixelated cadence. "Dark. Needs light. Needs shelter." He remembered the chilling emptiness of the cupboard, the suffocating absence of familiar light levels.

​Ron snickered. "Sounds like the start of a bad game. Always stuck in the dark first, aren't you?"

​Hermione, however, was already on to her next question. "And can you... can you still do the things you could in your game? Like... crafting? Or breaking things? And... that inventory space? Is that real?"

​Steve nodded, his form unmoving. "Yes. All still... functional. Like my body. Tools. Materials. Inventory." He subtly shifted his weight, and a small, cubic block of oak wood (salvaged from a discarded crate in London) appeared in his hand, then vanished back into his inventory with a faint shwip. Harry, Ron, and Hermione watched, mesmerized.

​"Blimey!" Ron exclaimed, his eyes wide. "You've got a whole shed in your pocket!"

​"That's incredible!" Hermione breathed, her logical mind struggling to reconcile the impossible. "So... what was the first thing you crafted when you got here? In the 'real world'?"

​Steve paused. The answer was immediate, deeply ingrained. "Sleeping bag."

​Hermione's eyes narrowed. "A sleeping bag?" she repeated slowly. "But... Steve, that's not possible." Her voice took on a slightly pedantic tone. "I've played Minecraft. Quite a bit, actually. I'm not very good at it – I usually get lost and run into creepers – but I know sleeping bags aren't craftable. You need wool and wood, but you craft a bed, not a sleeping bag. You can't just craft a sleeping bag!"

​She looked at him, her bushy hair practically vibrating with intellectual curiosity. "How could you craft a sleeping bag, if it's not a valid recipe in Minecraft?"

​Steve met her gaze, his blocky eyes conveying a deep, simple truth. "No recipe. But... necessary. Harry was cold. And... vulnerable." He gestured to Harry, who was listening intently. "Material for bed... not available. But material for 'warm, soft place'... available. Fabric. From... discarded clothes. Crafted. For Harry. Logic. Survival."

​Hermione blinked, her mouth slightly agape. She hadn't considered the adaptability of Steve's core programming. It wasn't about rigid adherence to game mechanics, but about applying the principles of his world – resource gathering, crafting for survival, protecting his 'player' – to a new, curved reality. His crafting extended beyond established recipes to a fundamental understanding of utility and necessity. He hadn't crafted a bed, but a sleeping bag, because that's what the situation demanded and what his available materials allowed. It was a level of intuitive, practical crafting that surpassed the game's limitations.

​Ron just looked confused. "So you can just... make things if you think they're important enough?"

​"If materials are available." Steve confirmed, his gaze returning to Harry. "And if... necessary. For survival."

​The conversation shifted, the reality of Steve's unique nature settling over the compartment. Harry felt a surge of warmth. Steve hadn't just appeared; he had appeared and adapted for him. His very first act, before anything else, was to protect Harry, to make him warm and safe.

​The conversation in the compartment continued, a strange mix of excited childhood chatter and Hermione's insatiable intellectual curiosity. Harry, for his part, found a deep comfort in having both Steve and his new friends.

​"So, Steve," Hermione asked, leaning forward, her eyes bright with thought, "what's the weirdest thing to you about our world? I mean, coming from a place made of blocks..."

​Steve paused, processing the question. His blocky voice, still with its pixelated quality, rumbled, "Curves. Tons of Curves." He gestured vaguely around the compartment, at the round windows, the slightly bowed ceiling, the rounded edges of the seats. "For me, that was jarring. From Cubes... to Curves."

​He paused again, recalling his first encounters with the Dursleys' possessions. "First... difficult to hold. Round handles. Slippery." He demonstrated with his blocky hand, trying to mime gripping a round object. "But then... I picked up a pan. Put in Inventory. Took back out." He held up his hand, perfectly miming holding an invisible, round pan. "And my mind... equated the Curves as very, very tiny cubes. That when in a grander scale... was Curved."

​Hermione's eyes widened. "So you're saying your brain... reinterprets our world's shapes into your own understanding of cubes? That's fascinating! A cognitive re-mapping of three-dimensional space!"

​Ron, meanwhile, looked thoroughly confused. "So everything's tiny squares to you? Even people?"

​"Yes." Steve confirmed simply. "Everything. Composed of. Tiny. Cubes."

​The idea of perceiving their world as an intricate, infinitely detailed tapestry of minute cubes seemed to stretch Hermione's understanding of reality, yet it also clicked with the impossible functionality of Steve's powers. It explained how his blocky hands could interact with their curved objects, how he could 'store' things, how he could 'craft'. His entire existence was a living, breathing algorithm, constantly translating this new, complex data into a format his core programming could understand.

​The conversation about shapes and perception continued for a while, until the landscape outside began to change. The orderly fields and towns of the muggle world gave way to darker, wilder countryside. As the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows, the train's whistle shrieked, signaling their approach to Hogwarts.

​The conversation about Steve's unique perception of curves, and the startling revelation of his adaptive crafting, flowed easily until Hermione's sharp eyes caught sight of Grimm, who had been resting quietly by Steve's feet.

​"So that dog isn't an actual dog, is it?" Hermione asked, her brow furrowed in thought. "It's a wolf."

​"Yes," Steve confirmed, his blocky voice steady. "Named it Grimm. Very loyal to me and Harry. Mostly me." He reached down, and Grimm, ever responsive, nudged his blocky head into Steve's hand, his pixelated tail giving a soft thump against the compartment floor.

​Ron, who had been sharing his remaining Every Flavor Beans with Harry, paused, a vomit-flavored bean halfway to his mouth. "A wolf? You just... walk around with a wolf? Isn't that dangerous?"

​"Tamed." Steve stated simply. "Not dangerous. Unless... hostile mob." He looked at Harry, a subtle reassurance in his blocky gaze.

​Hermione, however, was already looking out the window, her attention shifting. "Well, Hogwarts is coming into view! I'll go get dressed in my robes in another room, but I'll be back, okay?" With a final, determined nod, she bustled out of the compartment, presumably to change.

​Harry peered out the window, his face pressed against the glass. The landscape outside was now wild and dark, filled with ancient trees and jagged hills. In the distance, a magnificent, sprawling castle loomed against the twilight sky, its countless towers and turrets illuminated by hundreds of twinkling lights. Hogwarts. It looked like something out of a fairy tale, impossibly grand and magical.

​"Wow," Harry whispered, his voice full of wonder.

​Ron, already pulling on his own robes over his clothes, grinned. "First-years always get excited. You'll see it up close soon enough." He gestured for Harry to get changed as well. "Better put on your robes. We'll be there any minute now."

​Steve watched the castle. His internal sensors registered a massive concentration of magical energy emanating from the structure, far beyond anything he had encountered in Diagon Alley or even from Hagrid. It was a nexus of power. And somewhere within those ancient walls, he knew, lurked Quirrell and the "piece of a person." His mission was about to enter its most critical phase.

​He subtly checked his own form. He was still in his usual blue tunic and brown trousers, the Magic Protection +10 humming beneath, adapting to the non-magical environment of the train. He knew the robes would reappear when he stepped onto the platform, or more likely, once he was fully within the magical confines of the school proper.

​As Harry and Ron quickly changed into their new black robes, the train began to slow, its rhythmic clatter softening. The excitement in the compartment was palpable. This was the moment. The beginning of Harry's new life, and the escalation of Steve's impossible quest.