Getting punched in the face kind of hurt. And that whole getting hexed thing, not so much fun either. Michael couldn't feel his left arm much, which seemed like the sort of thing he ought to fix. Still, he was pacing the crowded St. Mungo's waiting room with an excess of energy; ever since Terry's arrest he'd been feeling the need for action, almost like a physical pull, and the book burning -- well, he didn't really give a fuck about the books, he didn't even know what books were being burned, but enough people were upset about it and it looked like they were going to get nasty over it. The promise of a clean fight suited him just fine. And that was more or less what he'd gotten. At some point he'd gotten separated from Penny and Gus, and he hoped they'd been smart enough to Apparate away once the protest had gotten violent, but he'd been too busy brawling with the hitwizard who'd tried to aim a hex at Penny to care.
It had felt good, actually. Not that it changed anything, but doing something other than sitting around, that felt good. Too bad he had to deal with the aftermath, too. Hospitals weren't his favorite place. When it was St. Mungo's and the political shit kept on happening even here, double that opinion. He watched as a dark-haired woman limped up to one of the mediwitches and began to shake them. Most of the other people in the room looked the other direction, or sidled away from her, afraid to draw attention. Michael thought she had the right idea, though. "Black eye's not gonna clear out the shit they got for brains," he called, leaning against the wall. "Could make you feel better, though. I'll hold 'em down and you can take a swing if you want. Sounds therapeutic-like."