This was something Harry did almost every morning. Five days a week he would wake up in the morning and worked his body through exercises. Sometimes he would push himself to the brink, doing everything he could to break past his physical boundaries, other times, like today, he would only do what he considered a light warm up. He couldn't afford to let his body turn into a swollen bruise due to his plans today. After finishing his work out, Harry headed back home at a light jog.
Physically, not much had changed in the Dursleys household. The living room was almost identical to the night when Harry had been dropped on the Dursley's doorstep. Only the photographs on the mantelpiece really showed how much time had passed. Ten years ago, there had been lots of pictures of what looked like a large pink beach ball wearing different-colored bonnets – but Dudley Dursley was no longer a baby, and now the photographs showed a large blond pig-faced boy riding his first bicycle, on a carousel at the fair, playing a computer game with his father, being hugged and kissed by his mother. Like all things except Harry's bedroom, this room showed no sign of him even living there.
That was fine with him, he had never truly considered the Dursley's to be family in any case. There was more to family than just relation by blood.
Harry soon entered the bathroom, disrobing from his now sweat covered clothes. He turned on the shower and soon stepped in. Rather than start cleaning himself right away, Harry pressed his palms against the wall and let the water hit his back. It was cold, starting out at least, but soon warmed up to the point where the room began to get covered in steam. After about a minute or two of simply letting the now hot water run down his form, Harry grabbed a bar of soap and began cleaning himself off. With his free hand, he gestured towards a bottle of shampoo, which lifted off the lip of the tub and floated towards him, stopping only after it had moved above his head. The small lid opened up and began to poor a dollop sized drop on his head, before settling back down in it's original spot. After he was done cleaning his body, the raven haired youth quickly worked the shampoo in his hair into a fine lather before rinsing it off. Soon after he finished cleaning, Harry turned off the water, stepped out, grabbed a towel, and began drying off. It was while he was doing this that he caught his figure in the fogged up mirror.
At nearly eleven years of age, Harry Potter was slightly above average in height. His body was very lean, and likely always would be, but where most children his age were just skinny, Harry's form was possessing of hard, whip corded muscles. Everywhere he looked he could see the outlines of his muscles, including the beginnings of a six pack. It wasn't as defined as some of the more athletic boys that had started puberty, but it was well above that of any child his age should possess.
Harry knew the reasons why, of course. Or at least, he had a theory on why he had more muscles than a child his age should be capable of getting. But without any true knowledge on the subject, he didn't dare put his theory to the test.
Aside from his rather impressive physic, for a ten going on eleven year old anyways, Harry had several scars that were on his back and chest. Most were nothing serious, his uncle had rarely done anything that could cause physical evidence of the damage he use to do, but there were a few on his back that he got from lashings with his uncle's belt. Of course, there was also the prominent scar on his forehead shaped in a lightning bolt, the scar he got when his parents died.
He shrugged thoughts of his scars (Battle wounds, Harry often joked) off a second later and got into his room and changed into a set of snug black jeans, a green shirt that matched his eyes, and a pair of converse shoes.
He spent the next half an hour sitting down on his floor, in a cross legged position, with his eyes closed and his breathing slow and controlled. Harry usually did this every day in order to help clear his thoughts so he could think without being inundated with random memories. It didn't keep them away, but meditation at least ensured that he would not be bothered by them. When he was finished the clock read six on the dot.
Finally finished, Harry made his into the kitchen. He grabbed several bowls and two pans from a cupboard, some eggs, milk, cheese and butter from the fridge, and flower and sugar from the pantry. He turned on the stove, put the two pans on different burners before placing a spoonful of butter on each. He started placing the ingredients in the bowl, cracking the eggs and mixing in the flower and milk, adding the sugar and some butter. As he worked in mixing the ingredients into a fine batter he hummed a little to himself.
He had learned to enjoy cooking in past five years, and had taken several cooking courses over one of his summers. His love of cooking was really one of the only reasons he still made breakfast and dinner for the Dursleys when ever he was home.
Once he was positive there were no clumps in the batter he moved over to the pans, the butter had melted and he made sure to spread it out evenly over the surface. With that done, Harry got out another bowl, cracked six eggs, added some salt and pepper, and whisked them enthusiastically. He always made something different for himself, not really interested in the less healthy food that his relatives seemed to enjoy so much.
Once the butter had melted and started to brown Harry poured the eggs into the frying pan and stirred it with the flat side of a fork. When the sides started to set, he lifted the side and pulled it into the center, repeating this until half of the eggs were set. He spooned three tablespoons of double cream onto the eggs, then liberally sprinkled it with some Balderson's Cheddar cheese and put it under the grill. He popped two pieces of toast into the toaster and moved over to the other pan and flipped the pancake on it. The sound of the door to the kitchen/living room caused him to look up from the eggs and pancakes he had been cooking.
"Aunt Petunia," Harry greeted with a curt nod. His relationship with his aunt was probably the strangest of the bunch. Neither of them liked each other, Harry may not hate the woman like he used to when he was younger, but he greatly disliked her and knew that she despised, or at the least, very much disliked him.
Of course, her feelings for Harry were so mixed in with other emotions that Harry could sense, but not make anything of that he was often left confused. However, Petunia was also something of his go-between for him and the other two Dursleys, who only spoke to him when absolutely necessary. Because of this, things remained somewhat cordial between them. Though Harry was sure part of the reason she was cordial was due to fear.
"Good, you're making breakfast," said Petunia in a stiff and formal voice. "Try not to burn anything; I want everything to be perfect for my Duddy's birthday."