The Developmental Psychology class that day felt like a night market.
Freshmen buzzing with excitement in their very first week of college—some cracking loud jokes, some busy taking selfies in their new uniforms, others pretending to be smart by throwing around theories they hadn't even studied.
Amidst the noise, Lily Malfoy sat in the corner, her face expressionless, calm, stiff—like a marble statue. Her appearance was simple: a white blouse, knee-length black skirt, her blonde hair neatly tied back. From a distance, she looked like an elegant girl who didn't want to be disturbed. But anyone who knew her understood: Lily was different. She was born into a world half-silent. She was mute.
Her classmates knew this, and instead of offering support, they turned it into a joke.
"Hey, Malfoy's mute. How's she gonna do presentations? Sign language? Hahaha."
"Maybe she'll sing for the opening? We'd be stuck here for three hours just watching her wave her hands."
"Seriously, how can a Malfoy be disabled? Isn't her family supposed to be so pureblood proud?"
Laughter burst from the middle rows.
Lily fixed her gaze on the blackboard, pretending not to hear. But every word landed like a slap to her heart.
She scribbled something in her notebook, just to keep her hands busy so no one could see her falter. A small sentence:
"A Malfoy does not fall because of foolish words."
A mantra she tried to believe in.
The classroom door opened.
A tall man entered with calm steps.
Black long-sleeved shirt, slightly messy dark brown hair, a face flat and unreadable.
The new substitute lecturer: Kang Terry.
The classroom's energy dropped at once. A cold aura pressed against the room.
"Good morning," Terry said flatly. "Today, there will be no small talk. I'm giving you an assignment."
Some students groaned under their breath. "First class and already an assignment…"
Terry picked up a marker and wrote on the board:
INDIVIDUAL PRESENTATION – 15 MINUTES
Topic: 'Piaget's Stages of Child Development'
"Each of you," Terry continued, "will come up one by one. Maximum fifteen minutes. You may use any medium, but you must deliver clearly. Your grade will depend on understanding and delivery."
The room broke into chaos again—panic, fake confidence, groans everywhere.
But none looked paler than Lily. She stared at the board for what felt like forever, her heart pounding.
Presentation… individual… speaking in front of the class…
Her head spun. Her hands trembled. She tried to write something, but the letters blurred.
From the back, whispers started again.
"Oh, Lily's done for. No way she can talk."
"This'll be fun—I want to see how a mute does a presentation."
"Hahaha, maybe she'll sing in her mind."
More laughter.
Lily clenched her jaw. Inside, she screamed: Why me? Why does it have to be a presentation?
Terry stood at the front, observing the students' expressions. His sharp eyes swept across the room. Cold as he was, he was also perceptive. He noticed Lily's face, pale as paper.
But instead of pity, he calmly wrote a list of names on the board.
"We'll start tomorrow. Five students a day. Starting from the top of the attendance list."
Lily's heart sank. Her name was always near the top—L for Lily.
"We'll begin with Allen, Daisy, Fred, George, and Lily," Terry announced.
Some students cheered in relief. Lily exhaled shakily.
Then Terry added, "And, I want Lily Malfoy to go first."
The classroom froze, then erupted in laughter.
"HAHA! This is free entertainment!"
"Sir, are you serious? She's mute!"
"She'll probably just write on the board, hahaha!"
Lily wanted to vanish on the spot. She bowed her head, fingers digging into her notebook until it nearly tore.
Terry's expression didn't change. "Is there a problem, Lily?" he asked, eyes fixed directly on her.
Silence.
Every gaze turned toward her. Lily felt the weight of their stares—waiting for her to fail.
Slowly, she picked up a marker, stood, and wrote on the small board beside the lecturer's desk:
"I cannot speak. I am mute."
The classroom erupted again.
"Oh my God! The lecturer didn't even know?!"
"Hilarious—how can a lecturer not know his student is mute?"
Terry read the words. He paused, then looked at Lily with an unreadable gaze. Not angry. Not surprised. Not sympathetic either.
"Fine," he said simply. "Then show it in your own way. There's no excuse to run from your task."
Lily froze. My own way?
Students whispered: "Man, this guy's brutal."
"Told you, Terry's a killer. Savage."
But to Lily, the words felt like a challenge.
---
That night, Lily sat in her dorm room, her desk buried under papers.
Piaget's book lay open beside her laptop.
She drew diagrams of child development stages, wrote explanations in colorful markers, and made a simple poster.
Each stroke felt heavy. She remembered the laughter, remembered Terry's gaze.
On a small note, she wrote: "I don't need pity. I just need a chance to prove myself."
She worked late into the night.
---
The next day, class was noisy again.
Five students were called up, Lily among them.
When her name was read, the room cheered as though watching a circus.
"Wooo! The Malfoy Show Time!"
"Come on, Lily, make us laugh!"
Lily walked to the front with steady steps, though her knees were weak. She carried a large poster of Piaget's stages.
She stood before the class, posting it up.
Silence for a moment. Everyone waited.
Lily glanced at Terry.
The lecturer stood with arms crossed, face blank.
With trembling hands, she lifted a marker and wrote in big letters on the board:
PIAGET'S STAGES OF DEVELOPMENT
Then she pointed at her poster.
She wrote short notes: Sensorimotor – 0–2 years. She drew a baby with a milk bottle.
The class burst out laughing.
"HAHA! Look, a baby drawing!"
"Seriously, like kindergarten art!"
Lily ignored them.
She continued to the second stage: Preoperational – 2–7 years. She drew a child holding a doll.
Some snickered, but others grew quiet. They understood what she meant.
She pressed on.
She drew a schoolkid with a pencil for Concrete Operational, then a thoughtful teenager for Formal Operational.
Everything was written clearly, neatly, with color.
No voice, no words—yet crystal clear.
The room gradually fell silent.
The laughter faded.
Terry stood unmoving, his sharp eyes following every detail. There was a flicker—something faint. Not sympathy. Recognition.
Lily ended her presentation by writing:
"Piaget shows us that children are not miniature adults. They have their own world. And that world deserves respect."
She looked at the class. Her hand trembled slightly.
Silence.
Until someone clapped softly. Then a few more. Not everyone, of course. Some still sneered.
But for Lily, it was more than enough.
She bowed, then walked back to her seat.
Before sitting, she glanced at Terry.
He still stood rigid. But for a brief moment, the corner of his lips almost lifted—whether a faint smile or just reflex, she couldn't tell.
To Lily, it felt like the first acknowledgment.
And she knew, the real storm was only beginning.