Harry sighs. "Don't worry, Michael. Buttercup, I may have mentioned that Michael is the Fist of God? He has a holy aura that thinks the demonic presence inside you needs to be cooked like a Christmas ham. Also, he's been madly in love with his wife for thirty years, and love builds on itself. Probably should've warned you, come to think of it, but you don't really seem to mind, so."

Michael looks dubiously at the burn, but nods.