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Prison Mike lands on the stone floor with a hard crash, breaking a bone or two in his ass. When the dust clears, he looks around the cramped space, where a man with overgrown hair and a beard is crouched in the corner.
"Who- who are you?" he asks in an accent that reminds Prison Mike of that Mr. Bean show he used to watch in the rec room of the prison.
"Yo, I'm Prison Mike. Who da hell are you? Forget dat, son - where the fuck am I at?" he demands, readjusting his do-rag and taking another look around. The room is round and made completely of stone, and the ceiling is so high Prison Mike can barely see it, which is totally wigging him out right now. He's almost grateful for the bars on the door; at least there's one thing he recognizes.
"This is Azkaban. Nobody comes to Azkaban without knowing what it is. You're not from around here, are you?" Hairy Mr. Bean asks.
"Son, one minute I was bending over to pick up the soap, the next I was flying through the air."
"That explains why you're only wearing a towel," Hairy Mr. Bean says with a raised eyebrow. Prison Mike gives him a look. Then, randomly, Hairy Mr. Bean says, "Portkey."
"What? Fool, you better start making sense or I'll-" Just then a loud, piercing howling cuts through the air that makes Prison Mike fall back on his bruised ass. "What the hell was that?"
Hairy Mr. Bean ignores the question, probably because sounds like that are normal around here. "So, Mr. Mike, for what reason were you incarcerated?" he asks Britishly. It makes Prison Mike want to punch him some.
"Kidnapping the president's son," he answers proudly. "You?"
"Murder and whatnot." Prison Mike's got nothing to say to that. Maybe this dude isn't as pansy as he seems.
Suddenly, the air goes cold. Prison Mike shivers in his towel. "I don't feel so good," he says with chattering teeth, and Hairy Mr. Bean crawls over to him, sliding his arms around Prison Mike's body.
"Those will be the dementors," he says like Prison Mike is supposed to understand anything this guy is saying. Maybe this is that crazy British talk, like adding U's where they're not supposed to be. "You know," Hairy Mr. Bean whispers in his ear, drawing him closer, "the only defense you have against them is to think happy thoughts."
"What is this, Peter fucking Pan?"
"I'm only suggesting that we are two men, alone in a room, and I for one haven't had company in a very long time. I can think of a few happy thoughts right now."
Prison Mike shrugs and drops his towel. It's nothing he hasn't done before.