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Don't.
Don't imagine a small boy by the name of Harry Potter. The boy with oversized clothing and a lightning scar. Don't imagine him curled up in his cupboard on his birthday, knowing it was something special but having it so callously ignored by his family. Family wasn't supposed to act this way.
Don't imagine his first trip to Diagon Alley. Please don't.
Don't imagine him on his 11th birthday, surrounded by strangers in a strange land, filled with amazing things. A place where the impossible becomes possible. People smile at him. They like him. They know his name, call him 'Mr. Potter, the Boy Who Lived'. He isn't boy or freak or delinquent. But he isn't Harry.
Don't imagine tears of joy filling Harry's eyes when Hagrid gives him a snowy white owl. Don't imagine Harry later spending hours pouring through his new books, searching for a special name from the wizarding world for his special new friend. Don't imagine the small smile that would appear on his small face when he finds the right name. Hedwig. Don't imagine the way that he would whisper it to his companion, and have her respond with a soft hoot. Don't even think that this was the moment that the newly christened Hedwig decides that this human, she was going to keep. (but it was).
Don't imagine Harry wandering throughout Diagon Alley. Don't think about the way that his eyes fill with wonder at this fantastic new world. Don't remember that those eyes were the same ones that James Potter fell in love with. Because they were Lily's eyes.
Don't imagine his awe at the fact that he had a vault. His very own vault, nobody else's. And he knew that it was real, because he had visited it before. He had seen it with his eyes and felt the weight of the gold in his hands. His stomach was still turning from the cart ride, but Harry didn't mind. Because it was all his.
Don't imagine Harry going into the Apothecary. Don't imagine him initially scrunching his nose at the smell, pungent and unusual and nothing like he could ever remember smelling before. Don't imagine him getting his potions kit from an elderly shopkeeper, paying with galleons from his vault (his!). Don't imagine seeing his eyes bulge as he meanders throughout the aisles of the store. Don't think about how they would look, reflection contorting on a bottle of something. How they widened even more when he saw the cauldrons. Silver, pewter, gold, and glass. Different shapes, sizes, and colors.
Don't imagine how excited Harry would get when he realizes that he can do this at home without magic. That he can study and practice over the summer until school starts, unlike the rest of his subjects. He can read the charts explaining what reacts with what and how and why and he gets it.
Don't imagine Harry practice different techniques while preparing food for the Dursleys. He would practice chopping, dicing, and slicing. Onions, carrots, peppers, meat, it didn't matter to Harry. He wanted to be the best at something for once in his life.
Don't imagine Petunia being confused and suspicious of her nephew's newfound enthusiasm for his chores. Don't imagine her silent acceptance of his actions. Don't imagine her looking at the boy with his mother's eyes and remember Lily doing the exact same thing when she was a young girl.
Don't imagine Harry, now at Hogwarts, on his first day of Potions class. Don't imagine his quill out and ready, taking notes as his new professor spoke. Don't imagine his tongue poking out from behind his lips as he precariously wrote out each word that came out of the professor's mouth.
Don't imagine the professor thinking of the past, when a green eyed girl did the exact same thing. Don't imagine the professor simmering in rage seeing that expression on the face of his mortal enemy. Don't imagine what happens next.
Don't imagine Harry's startled face when the professor calls him out. How confused and embarrassed he would be, his face turning red when he is singled out, made a fool of.
Don't imagine his heart plummeting when he realizes that after all this time, studying and preparing, he never could have anticipated or prepared for this moment. The moment when his small fantasy of being Harry, the boy who was finally good at something, shattered.
Don't imagine Harry leaving the class with his face blank. Other students try to console him, tell him that Snape was like that to all Gryffindors. That Snape hated everyone who wasn't in Slytherin.
But most of all, don't imagine a small raven haired little boy with his mother's eyes, crying because he still isn't good enough. Don't imagine him tearing up his page of notes. Other notes he had made in the summer joined it. Don't imagine them lying on the floor, in pieces. Don't imagine the parchment bursting into flames, a casualty of accidental magic and a broken self esteem.
Don't.
Just don't.