I guess I should start by telling you what I'm going to be writing about and why. Well, you should have a vague idea since you've bought the book. I'm writing about me. My life. As for why, well, you can bet Rita Skeeter is just itching to write my biography, and in my experience, she writes more lies and exaggerations than truths. So this is my way of saying "up yours" to her.

My life is such a long story though. And I have such a short attention span when it comes to stories. But it must be easier than writing a fictional story. I know the facts, the events. The beginning, the middle. There's not really an end, not until I die, and I can't exactly write a book from the grave. I may be magic, but that's impossible.

I guess I should start at the start, but it's not that simple. Is the start my birth? I guess. But there are so many elements of my mother's life, of my grandmother's life, that affect my life, right from the moment I was born.

So here are the basic facts of my birth. I was born Abigail Susanne Riddle, 8 August 1980, in Swindon, Wiltshire. Present at my birth were my mother of course, Susanne Riddle, and the midwife. No father. No parents about to become grandparents. Just my mother and I.

Before you jump to any conclusions, let me assure you that they did exist. My father and grandparents, I mean. They just didn't know I was being born. They didn't even know I existed. My paternal grandparents were dead, as I would discover many years later. My maternal grandmother would discover I existed in a few months. My father and I met when I was 11, but we didn't know of our relation until I was 14. My maternal grandfather – well, he's a long story. I tried to keep off his radar for as long as possible, but that's another story for another time.

My mother, unwilling to admit the identity of my father, lied and said she didn't know, and so I was christened with her surname. I grew up a fairly carefree child, not getting into trouble – as long as I kept a lid on my magic. I went to a muggle primary school, where I largely kept to myself on my mother's warning. This, of course, led to me being seen as the weird one who didn't really talk to anyone.

I didn't care. I knew making friends would be pointless, because I was going on to bigger and better things. Muggle education was just to pass the time, to give me literary and numeric skills before I went to Hogwarts.

Then, a month before my 11th birthday, it came. The thing I'd been waiting for since I knew how to walk: my Hogwarts letter. I remember that letter clear as day. It seemed huge in my 11-year-old hands. My name and address were written elegantly in what I would come to recognise as the calligraphic, for some reason green, handwriting of Minerva McGonagall, Hogwarts deputy head and Transfiguration professor.

It arrived quite early, while I was still in bed. My mum came in and turned the light on. I moaned and buried my head under the duvet like any eleven year old would, but out of the corner of my eye, before I was fully buried, I saw a glimmer of green and emerged just as quickly as I'd hidden.

"Don't you want your Hogwarts letter?" My mum teased.

"Gimme!" I squealed with excitement, sitting up and suddenly a lot more awake than I had been a moment ago.

Really, the letter wasn't what I was excited for. I knew what it would say. Hogwarts didn't really reject people, in fact every witch and wizard has their name down from the moment they're born. The only situation in which a magical child doesn't go to Hogwarts is if their parents choose to home school them, or to send them to a foreign school. What I was really excited for was the confirmation that Hogwarts wasn't imaginary. It was real. And I was going .This letter wasn't exciting because it offered me a place – it was exciting because it was the first indication that it was my turn.

I was eager, to put it lightly. I would bug my mum constantly that we needed to go to Diagon Alley soon! Or else it would be really, really busy. After a week of non-stop insistence, Mum eventually agreed we would go at the end of the month.

If you know much about Harry Potter, you might know he went at the end of the month too. We went on the same day, yes, but I'd been right – Diagon Alley was packed. I didn't get a glimpse of my future close friend that day, and this might be my brain lying to me, but I swear I remember a gigantic man, twice the size of anyone else around, standing outside a shop holding an owl. I thought it curious he was so big, but let the thought escape and focused instead on finding Flourish & Blotts. How was I supposed to know that giant man would come to be a good friend, or that he was waiting for the famous Harry Potter, who was inside talking to my future husband?

I've been to a lot of breathtaking magical places in my life. But by far Diagon Alley exceeds all others, surpassed only by Hogwarts itself. Hogsmeade, where I live now, is third – no, fourth. The atrium of the Ministry of Magic is third. The hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley is what makes me love it so. Witches and wizards of varying ages, races, genders and purpose passing by you constantly. Snippets of conversations - "we need more newt eyes", "where can I get one of those self-frying pans?" - which would make the most open-minded muggle stop and wonder if they'd heard it right. Something unusual at every turn – the strangest of creatures – the most awe-inspiring of spellbooks.

I had been to Diagon Alley before that day, but had always been for simple things Mum needed for the house. Now we were shopping for me and my school stuff, the place took on a new wonder. Over the years I would lose my awe for the place as it became a regular event in the summer to visit, but after my period of abstinence from magic when I left school, seeing Diagon Alley again for the first time in years will not be something I forget in a hurry. Now, every time I visit, I always stop to appreciate what a wonder Diagon Alley truly is.

Buying books was a thrill. All the information readily available was almost intoxicating, since I have a thirst for knowledge surpassed only by Hermione Granger. Potion ingredients weren't so fun, as I'd bought plenty previously with Mum, and robe-fitting only excited me when I saw the final product, with the Hogwarts crest proudly embroidered on the chest.

What I really loved, even more than the books, was the wand. Buying your wand at age eleven is one of the first significant milestones for a witch or wizard, and here I was in Ollivander's doing just that. It took a surprisingly long time to find the right one. I had always assumed Ollivander just knew which wand to give someone, but as I discovered that day, he kept giving me different kinds of wands until he found the right one. After what felt like an age, I finally found my wand.

Holding it in my hand for the first time was a truly magical moment, no pun intended. It was like a light had been switched on inside me. From the moment my skin touched the wood, I felt a beautiful warmth spreading through me, starting in my right hand and making its way around my body until I was filled up with the magic and power that previously sat unlocked inside me, but I always knew was there. Not because I was raised in a magical household, but because I could feel it. I once shared this theory with my friend Hermione, who was raised in a muggle household, and she agreed with me. Somehow, she had always felt this great ability lying dormant inside her until she picked up her wand for the first time. The power was finally unlocked that day in Ollivander's, and no matter how hard I would try many years later, it could never be locked away again. It was like opening Pandora's Box, but in a good way.

And so I left Ollivander's with my wand, feeling positive. I had my wand. 10 and a half inches, ash wood, unicorn hair, swishy. I had my books. I had my robe, equipment, ingredients and owl. I was all set to go to Hogwarts and begin my journey to becoming a fully-fledged witch. I felt like I could face anything, do anything, vanquish anything that dared to stand in my way. I could be whoever I wanted to be.

And, as it turned out, I was right.