My first story on this account! Basically it's an AU with Fem!Harry and Twin!Lilly, where Lilly's twin sister and her husband are at Godric's Hollow when Voldemort attacks. Since Lilly's sister's child was born at the end of July as well, Voldemort decides to kill both him and Fem!Harry - Autumn. No one knows who he targeted first, but he was destroyed, leaving Autumn with a lightning-bolt scar and Henry with a slash on his cheek. This is not a dark fic, though the rest of the stories I post on this account will likely be. It is an Independant!'Harry', and the plot will be different from the book - not drastically, there's still a stone and they still try and save it and all that, but well...you'll see.

THIS CHAPTER IS BASICALLY WORD FOR WORD FROM THE BOOK. THE REST WILL NO BE LIKE THAT. PLEASE WAIT FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER BEFORE YOU COMPLAIN THAT IT'S JUST 'THE SAME STORY WITH DIFFERENT NAMES'.

Full summary: Autumn Lily Potter and Henry Nathaniel Hill are cousins – their mothers, Lily and Rose, are twin sisters who also happen to be witches. Their parents, horribly, were killed at the same time when Voldemort attacked the Potter's home while the Hills were visiting. Thus, Autumn and Henry were sent to live with their only surviving aunt, Petunia, who soon has to move in with her mother after her father died. Autumn and Henry are expected to do a lot of things to 'help out' and 'earn their keep'. Vernon and Petunia don't like them, for obvious reasons, and their grandmother is too out of it to care for them. Dudley, however, is indifferent for the most part, (except around his friends, where he picks on them), but his younger sister, Melvina, has magic too (which the Dursley's pretend they don't know), and is their friend. What will happen when the three 'Potters' (because Autumn decided long ago that Henry and Melvina were honorary Potters) go to Hogwarts? Let's see...

Long Held Secrets –

The Saga of the Three Potters:

The Sorcerer's Stone

CHAPTER ONE: THE CHILDREN WHO LIVED

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.

Mr. Dursley worked for a business that made drills. He was a beefy man with hardly any neck and a large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, as if she had gotten the bits her husband lacked. She spent much of her time spying on the neighbours. The Dursleys had a small son named Dudley; in their opinion a finer boy couldn't be found. They also had a little girl just over a year old named Melvina, and the Dursleys were convinced that a more perfect girl didn't exist.

The Dursleys had everything they wanted – a nice car, a nice house in a nice neighbourhood, nice clothes, and nice possessions. However, the Dursleys had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about about the Potters and the Hills. Mrs. Dursley's two younger sisters, who were twins, and their good-for-nothing husbands were about as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys knew that the Hills had a small son as well, while the Hills had a small daughter, but they had never seen either of them. These children were another good reason for keeping the Potters and Hills away; they didn't want Dudley and Melvina mixing with individuals like that.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr. Dursley hummed to himself as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his highchair while an irritated Melvina covered her little ears and scowled.

Only Melvina noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window. She grinned at it, then pointed, declaring, "Birdy!"

"Yes, yes, dear." Mrs. Dursley said placidly. "Did you see a bird, hm?"

"Big! Big bird!" Melvina said. She had never seen an owl before. However, the Dursleys ignored this and went about their day.

At half eight, Mr. Dursley gathered his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, smooched Melvina on the head, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls.

"Little tyke," chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. Melvina let out a tiny groan.

Slowly but surely, Mr. Dursley's day became very strange. First, at the corner of Privet Drive, he saw a cat reading a map. When he whipped around to look back at it, the map was gone. He looked back in his mirror; the cat was reading the sign that said Privet Drive. No – no, he was looking at the sign; cats couldn't read maps or signs. Mr. Dursley shook his head and tried to focus on drills; he was being stupid. The cat had just been a weird little animal, that was all.

However, drills were driven out of his mind quickly. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks, of all things. Mr. Dursley hated people who dressed in funny clothes; he supposed this was some new fashion, or perhaps they were collecting for something. His eyes fell on a group of these weirdos standing close by, chattering excitedly together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that several of these people weren't the young folks he usually saw wearing weird clothes; in fact, one man in an emerald cloak looked even older than he was! The nerve of him...

The traffic moved on, and Mr. Dursley put his mind off of cloaks and onto drills once more. Soon, he was in his office with his back to the window as per usual. If he hadn't sat this way, he may have found it much harder to concentrate. He didn't see the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery.

He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the baker's. He eyed them angrily as he passed; he didn't know why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch was whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.

"The Potter's, that's right, that's what I heard–"

"–Yes, their daughter, Autumn–"

"–And the Hills were there, did you hear–"

Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.

He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache, thinking...

No, he was being stupid. Potter wasn't such an unusual name, and neither was Hill. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter that had a daughter called Autumn who happened to be associated with a family with the name Hill. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure that the Potter's daughter was called Autumn. He'd never even seen the girl. It might have been Alice. Or Alexandra. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got cross at the mention of her sisters. He didn't blame her – if he'd had sisters like that...

Mr. Dursley shuddered.

But all the same, those people in cloaks...

He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when he left the building at five o'clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.

"Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realised that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem at all upset at almost being knocked to the ground; instead, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice, "Don't be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Potter has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating this happy day!"

And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.

Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination.

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw – and it didn't improve his mood, thank you – was the cat from earlier that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it was a tabby, with strange markings around the eyes.

"Shoo!" Mr. Dursley called loudly.

The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behaviour? Mr. Dursley didn't know. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.

Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and how Dudley and Melvina had both learned a new word ("Shan't!" in Dudley's case, "Quiet!" in Melvina's). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news:

"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are rarely seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction imaginable since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping patterns." The newscaster allowed himself a grin. "Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?"

"Well, Ted," said the weatherman. "I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early – it's not until next week, folks! But I can promise a very wet night tonight."

Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters...

Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He'd have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. "Er, Petunia, dear – you haven't heard from your sisters lately, have you?"

As expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn't have sisters.

"No," she said sharply. "Why?"

"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley mumbled. "Owls...shooting stars...and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today..."

"So?" snapped Mrs. Dursley.

"Well, I just thought...maybe...it was something to do with...you know...their crowd."

Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered whether he dared to tell her he'd heard the name "Potter". He decided he didn't dare. Instead, he said, as casually as he could, "The Potter's daughter – and the Hill's son – they'd be about Melvina's age now, wouldn't they?"

"I suppose so," said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.

"What's the girl's name again? Alice, isn't it?"

"No, they call her Autumn. Nasty common name, you ask me."

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly "Yes, I quite agree."

He didn't say another word on the subject. They went upstairs to bed, and while Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley snuck to the bedroom window and peered into the front garden. The cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though it was waiting for someone.

Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Potters and Hills? If it did...if it got out that they were related to a bunch of – well, he didn't think he could bear it.

Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly that night. Mr. Dursley, on the other hand, lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last thought before he fell asleep was comforting: even if the Potters and Hills were involved, there was no reason for them to come near his family. The two other families knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind...He couldn't see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in all that. No, it wouldn't affect them.

How very wrong he was.

Ms. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and bear, which was long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, "I should have known."

He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching her. If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn't look at it, but after a moment He spoke to it.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall." He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked.

"My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."

"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," said Professor McGonagall.

"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."

Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.

"Oh yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," she said impatiently. "You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no. Even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It was on their news." she jerked her head back at the Dursleys' dark living-room window. "I heard it. Flocks of owls... shooting stars... Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent – I'll bet that was Daedalus Diggle. He never had much sense."

"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."

"I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors." She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on. "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You- Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?"

"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?"

"A what?"

"A lemon drop. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of."

"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn't think this was the moment for lemon drops. "As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone–"

"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this You-Know-Who' nonsense – for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort." Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying You-Know-Who. I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name."

"I know you haven't," said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know – oh, all right, Voldemort was frightened of."

"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had powers I will never have."

"Only because you're too, well, noble to use them."

"It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said "The owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what they're saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever "everyone" was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.

"What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters, and the Hills. The rumor is that Lily and James – and, and that Rose and Nathaniel – are...are...that they're dead."

Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.

"Lily and James, oh – Rose and Nathaniel... I can't believe it... I didn't want to believe it... Oh, Albus..."

Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. "I know... I know..." he said heavily.

Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she went on. "That's not all. They're saying that he either tried to kill the Potter's daughter, Autumn, or the Hill's boy, Henry. But whoever it was – he couldn't. He couldn't kill a little child! No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill whichever of the two he picked, Voldemort's power somehow broke and that's why he's gone." Dumbledore nodded glumly. "It's – it's true?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all he's done... all the people he's killed... he couldn't kill a little baby? It's just astounding... of all the things to stop him... but how in the name of heaven did Autumn and Henry survive?"

"We can only guess." said Dumbledore. "We may never know."

Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?"

"Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places?"

"I've come to bring Autumn and Henry to their uncle and aunt. They're the only family the children have left now."

"You don't mean – you can't mean the people who live here?" cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four. "Dumbledore, you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've got this son – I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Autumn Potter and Henry Hill come and live here!"

"It's the best place for them," said Dumbledore firmly. "Her uncle and aunt will be able to explain everything to them when they're older. I've written them a letter."

"A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand those two children! They'll be famous – legends! I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Autumn Potter or Henry Hill day in the future! There will be books written about Autumn and Henry – every child in our world will know their names! One of them defeated V-Voldemort, for goodness sake!"

"Exactly." said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn any child's head. Famous before they can walk and talk! Famous for something they won't even remember! Can you see how much better off they'll be, growing up away from all that until they're ready to take it?"

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and then said, "Yes, yes, you're right, of course. But how are the children getting here, Dumbledore?" She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Autumn and Henry underneath it.

"Hagrid's bringing them."

"You think it wise to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"

"I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore.

"I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," said Professor McGonagall grudgingly, "but you can't pretend he's not careless. He does tend to – what was that?"

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them. If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild – long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.

"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got them, sir."

"No problems, were there?"

"No, sir. House was almost destroyed, but I got them two out all right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. They both fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol."

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, were a baby girl and a small boy, both fast asleep. Under a tuft of red hair over the girl's forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning. On the boy's cheek was a straight gash about three inches long.

"Is that where?" whispered Professor McGonagall.

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "There's no way of telling if the scars are from the debris or the spell – no way of telling which one of them was targeted. The scars both have magical properties – either absorbed from the backlash of the spell, or from the spell itself.. They'll have those scar forever."

"Couldn't you do something about them, Dumbledore?"

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well give them here, Hagrid. We'd better get this over with."

Dumbledore took Autumn and Henry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house.

"Could I – could I say good-bye to them, sir?" asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Autumn and gave her a kiss, then did the same for Henry. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.

"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "You'll wake the Muggles!"

"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it! Lilly, James, Rose, and Nathaniel all dead, an' poor little Autumn an' Henry off ter live with Muggles!"

"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Autumn and Henry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it beside Autumn, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundles; Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.

"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."

"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I best get this bike away. G'night, Professor McGonagall, Professor Dumbledore, sir."

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.

"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply.

Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.

"Good luck, Autumn and Henry," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Autumn Potter rolled over inside her blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside her and one other around her cousin's wrist. Henry sighed softly and snuggled closer to her. They slept on, not knowing they were special, not knowing they was famous, not knowing they would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that they would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by their other cousin Dudley and stared at by Melvina... They couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Autumn Potter and Henry Hill – the children who lived!"

AGAIN: THIS CHAPTER IS BASICALLY WORD FOR WORD FROM THE BOOK. THE REST WILL NO BE LIKE THAT. PLEASE WAIT FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER BEFORE YOU COMPLAIN THAT IT'S JUST 'THE SAME STORY WITH DIFFERENT NAMES'.