It catches him, lips parted, and he runs fingers through his short hair to try and settle his nerves, looking at Snape from the edge of his eye, the elegant arch of that eyebrow. He's talking without thinking, nervous just from being around Snape, from the aftermath of the nightmare, from the thoughts in his head. He moves into the room, but instead of sitting he merely stands next to the chair. His ass still aches and the chair seems as if it's meant to be uncomfortable. Not to mention that with Snape he doesn't have to hide it, because Snape already knows.

It's difficult, he realizes suddenly, standing there wide-eyed, skin slightly sheened from waking nightmares, the terror that was on the verge of possessing him not long ago. He needs another dose, but saying it is somehow difficult as he swallows, looking up at him, that arrogant lift of his chin that is almost permanent. His fingers fidget, his eyes dart; it's not as bad as when he was in the hallway, but how affected he is manages to still be quite clear.

"I need some potion reagents," he says finally, drawing his gaze up to look into Snape's dark eyes and he shifts awkwardly. It's not just asking (even if its devoid of things like that lilt if his voice or things like please, or any of the usual niceties. It's so very, veryk hard when all he can think of is how much he needs Snape, needs him to hurt him, to take away these feelings. It feels like if Snape held him down, touched him, that it wouldn't feel like this, but that's likely just related to how much the other night made him feel. Like he was dying, and so much better. He doesn't really know how to finish the rest of it; he's avoiding mentioning the name of the potion, doesn't want to have to acknowledge just exactly what Snape knows. He doesn't want to have to admit that he's not okay, that he can't cope, that he's still this weak, this helpless. He hasn't been okay since there stopped being someone to ground him from the fear.