Narcissa Malfoy

[When the Forge begins to broadcast, there is no accidental audio, no strange string of letters as the user smashes an unpracticed hand across the keypad. The video activates to show a relatively well-groomed woman, possibly in her late thirties or early forties. She would be quite pretty, indeed, if not for the look of hauteur and barely-concealed distaste.

Narcissa will never admit to a living soul just how quickly she learned to use a piece of Muggle technology. It isn't a source of pride; in fact, it's quite humiliating, but alas, a necessary evil.

She hasn't quite reconciled that necessary evil with personal sentiment.

If it weren't for her sense of indignation at both her abduction and the necessity of Muggle rubbish, she might not be as collected as she seems now, a fact which is given credence by the details gone unnoticed at first glance. The faint shadows about her eyes. A leanness which is less fashionable and instead one borne of stress. The way the Forge shakes slightly if she doesn't hold it in both hands.

For all that, her tone is as cold as ice.]

I can only assume that my abductor is listening. Perhaps even that is too much to ask, if this is just some elaborate...prank.

[Distaste becomes blatant disgust with that last word.]

Obviously, you have no idea who I am or the severity of the mistake you've made.

[Perhaps it isn't threatening to be a Malfoy any longer, but this isn't just any Malfoy, after all.]