Title: Red is an ugly colour (and so are you)

Prompt: Oh My Ghost. Theme - a relationship of any sort between a ghost and a human for TQLFC

Beta: The Beadle Blues

A/N: Not much dialogue, but that's kind of the point. It's supposed to metaphorical, and yes, the Tom in this is Tom Riddle. That's kind of obvious. Heavy AU, no magic, you know the drill.

Wolfsburg, Fallerseblen — 1942

["If you tell a big enough lie and tell it frequently enough, it will be believed." - Adolf Hitler]

"If everyone works, and everyone is respectful; everyone is safe." The men had said when they had arrived, and at that moment, it had felt comforting.

But, Tom knew the tall men with red ambient armbands had lied when the girl with strawberry-blonde tresses braided to her waist, and pretty, bright green eyes — the kind of green that budded on the prisoners of winter, bringing life back to their branches — was pushed into the licking, scarlet flames of the exhaust pipe.

She didn't scream, and she didn't move. She stood within the white of the flames, and Tom could remember how her ashen flesh seemed to melt onto the corroding, metal floor like molasses. He remembered how the grey stripes on her tattered jumper burned an unfamiliar red — the kind of red he saw when the grey sky seemed to reflect the sunset above, the reds and oranges of the sun spilt across the darkening sky like blotted vivid inks. But, it wasn't beautiful.

Her jumper was an ugly, dark burgundy. It wasn't nice, and it wasn't pretty. It reminded him of the mould on his stale bread, and it reminded him of the sickening stench of vintage. But, she was dead, and he didn't have to see the red on her jumper anymore. They had killed her.

Red was always an ugly colour, anyway.

He did, though, and she was hiding where he always hid. It irked him, but he couldn't yell at her; she was dead, and the men outside of the barracks would hear him, and he would appear insane. He couldn't have that, and she knew it. It annoyed him, and he didn't think anything could annoy him more.

Her skin was wan like the gibbous moon outside, and he was happy to see her striped, tattered jumper was just as grey. She didn't move when he sat next to her, and she didn't look at him when he tried to touch her fading, strawberry-blonde hair. She just sat there, and it unnerved Tom, but he didn't let her know that.

It was past midnight when he heard her speak, and it was past midnight when he saw her move. She was sluggish, and she was slow, but she moved faster than he did, and that unnerved him more than it did when she didn't move. "Why?" she had said, and Tom didn't know how to answer; he didn't know what she meant, and he didn't think he wanted to know. She was dead, and he was alive. He didn't think it mattered, and maybe it really didn't, but maybe it did.

"Wo ist der verdammte Junge?" He didn't think ghosts could be scared, but she had jumped, and he did too. The voice was irritated and gruff, and they wanted him, and he didn't want to leave his hiding place. But, she had looked at him, then, and her pretty, bright green eyes weren't as green as they used to be.

And that annoyed him more than anything else ever had.

She watched him as he tinkered, and she watched him as he slept, and for some reason, it didn't bother him. She didn't have much to say, and she didn't have much to do. She mused as he washed dishes, and she floated as he mended parts. She was useless, and she knew it, but he didn't think it bothered her. She was useless when she was alive as well. He knew just as her that the men that pushed her into the scarlet flames believed her to be just as useless as they did, too. Tom wondered if he would be killed off as well, and that terrified him, but he didn't let her know that. She wouldn't be sad about it.

He was standing next to the exhaust pipe when he learned her name. Her name was Amy Benson, and Tom liked to think that to be a rather dull name, but he knew as much she did that his name wasn't any better. He teased her, and she teased him — and for a few moments, he believed her to be alive, and it scared him. He was speaking to a ghost. She was dead, and he could see her pale flesh stretch as her brittle bones pressed against her skin, and he could see her pale green eyes as they looked at him. It disgusted him, and it was then the wan of her flesh melted to the corroded, metal floor.

He was staring at burned, red flesh, and Tom was terrified.

He didn't see her for days.

It was only a matter of time before Tom realised he was just as dead as her. He ate stale bread, and the water he drank tasted like blood. He toiled all the day, and he rarely slept, and when he did, he was pushed against bodies just as exhausted as his. She was dead, and Tom knew he was on the verge of death. He didn't want to die. He didn't want to be forever musing, floating, waiting. He didn't want to be dead; he wanted to live. He wanted to escape, but she didn't want him to. She wanted him to be with her, and he couldn't help but think her to be insane.

"No one can help you out there," she had told him, but he wasn't listening; he was watching the train as it pulled into the camp. "You'll die out there, and I'll be in here. You'll be alone, and I'll be happy."

But, Tom didn't need her. She was dead, and he was still alive. He had a chance to be out, and she was trapped forever in her charred, burgundy flesh. He had made a run for it before she had the chance to stop him, and he watched her as the train began to pull out of the camp (and maybe it would stay that way forever). She was waving at him, and he had the urge to wave back, but he didn't. Something caught his eye, and he had the urge to throw up.

Her stripped, tattered jumper was an ugly red.