Not to mention it'd be a waste of perfectly good wine! One mortal indulgence he's still fond of, even now when the taste is almost phantasmal.

But, wine later. Hermione probably won't mind a few stiff swigs of the stuff, either, once they're done here. His eyes dart towards where she has his hand pressed to her forehead, the warmth bleeding into him, and for a moment something in him twists uncomfortably. Not entirely sure he likes that...

Focus.

With a nod, Astarion soaks the cloth once again, and quickly presses it to her skin. He's been gentle thus far, but there's no amount of care that is going to make it burn less than the Nine Hells themselves. The merciful thing to do is be swift.