The thirteenth level was far different than those above. Some of the tunnels were rough hewn rock like those of the twelfth, others were different. Tunnels, lined with oddly shaped interlocking stones, connected at strange angles. On closer examination these stones were carved with pictograms and ideographs like none he'd seen before. He couldn't be sure because of the wearing of countless ages, but no two stones seemed to have the exact same hieroglyphs. These passages he suspected were lined with narratives, or histories, although of what nature he couldn't guess.
The thirteenth was the only level where the openings to the dementor's nests were not set into blank walls. The interlocking stones surrounded and lined these holes. In the rough hewn areas there were alcoves as with the previous level. The story tunnels, as Tamblin came to think of them, had no cells or alcoves, but there were irregular rooms of no clear purpose.
The dementor's aura created a physical presence on this last level, as if the weight of all the levels above were pressing down on each and every prisoner. Despite this the prisoners of the last level weren't as crushed as some of those above. Many were catatonic, crammed into the furthest recess of a rough stone alcove, or supine in the alien rooms. Others showed a surprising amount of activity. These prisoners seemed possessed of a strange energy drawn from the oppression. They moved with strength, but not vigor, like a fevered patient whose illness drives them to move. They had made their peace, or deal, with the devil.
Down one hallway Tamblin found a wide bodied man with a dementor. The man was not cringing away from the thing, or trying to ignore it, but speaking to it in the manner of equals. The man looked worn down but not beaten. His robes were shabby and clearly those of a prisoner. The dementor floated before him. Tamblin watched this exchange until the two of them suddenly disappeared. Tamblin started until he realized that the two had not disapparated. Tamblin had drifted off into reverie again while the man and dementor finished whatever business they had.
The level stretched on and on, seeming far too large for the rock it was built into, as Tamblin searched for the face that Dumbledore had shown him. He found the man Digdon in an alcove leaning against a rock wall. The face was recognizable, despite being far more sallow and withered than in the picture Dumbledore had shown him from the Daily Prophet. That picture swam before Tamblin's eyes, multiplied a hundred fold by the alchemirand. Tamblin tried to focus on the real face amid the swirling younger versions in his memory. The man had grayish black hair and a long rectangular face that had a texture like drift wood. His lean frame sat straight but his large head leaned over to the side like it was too heavy for his narrow neck to support. Digdon's eyes were unfocused but not empty. There was still a spark of presence in them, buried deep under the weight of Azkaban.
Tamblin noticed again that he could see color on Digdon where he should not. He was closer to the world that Digdon was in than he should have been. Still it was not close enough for him to draw the memories from the man's mind. Tamblin would have to be much closer, much less withdrawn, for that. As a dementor swept by the entrance of the alcove, Tamblin thought hard about how to do it safely.
The problem was one of attention, and that was a topic Tamblin considered himself an expert in. He couldn't hide while he got what he needed. And if he couldn't hide from them, he'd just have to make sure they were looking the other way. Tamblin located the central shaft, found the fastest route from the shaft to Digdon's alcove and then traveled further along that line until he found a small cluster of alcoves with three prisoners between them. Most importantly, he passed no areas with openings to the dementor nest between the central shaft and the place he intended to set his diversion. He didn't want them between the diversion and Digdon, or Digdon and the shaft.
He needed to work a little magic. Nothing as hard as what he'd have to do with Digdon. Something easier, something he wouldn't have to come as far back for. Tamblin focused. He wrestled with the power, trying to leash it again. It took long minutes before he saw the faint colors become more vibrant and spread. Tamblin took out his bloodwand, pointed it at the nearest prisoner, an old man with loose lips tightly clamped in a permanent grimace.
Tamblin's voice came out in a croak. "Ecphoria."
The man's face twitched as the spell caused him to recall a memory in which he had been truly happy. His lips came unsealed, the bottom hanging limply. He made a low moaning sound. His face turned upward, tears running down from each eye. The man's slack lips began to tremble. Tamblin watched in fascination as the man's facial muscles tremble with an unfamiliar strain, slowly pulling the edges of his mouth up into a gruesome smile. The man continued to make a wheezing croak that broke up into sobs as he experienced happiness for the first time in what must have been decades.
Tamblin turned on the other two prisoners casting the same spell. He didn't stop to watch the effect, the dementor's would soon scent hope or happiness where none should be. They would be coming.
He slid down the hallway towards Digdon. He moved much more carefully now that he was less withdrawn. The dementors would smell him if he got close. At least prying himself a little from the grey helped his thoughts clear a bit.
Digdon looked to be in exactly the same place. Tamblin grit his teeth and clenched his fists forcing himself by will alone to be visible. The strain made his already aching head feel like it would split entirely. He bent over shoving his fists against his temples to hold his skull together. When Tamblin straightened up, Digdon had more color and was looking right at him.
"At last, you're here." Digdon said without surprise.
