He should have known there was something different this time. Something wrong. More wrong, he should say.
When Astoria had miscarried their first child at eight weeks, there had been tears. When their second had been stillborn at eight months, there had been a flood of tears. When their third was lost at four months, the healers had sedated her because of her hysterical grief.
She had told Draco something was wrong with baby number four. It hadn't moved all day, and at five and a half months along, she was used to their child moving quite a bit. He had taken her to St Mungos with the familiar sick feeling of dread, where the healers confirmed that their baby boy no longer had a heartbeat.
Draco had choked back his grief and disappointment, trying to be strong for her, yet again.
She hadn't needed him to, this time.
Astoria had been surprisingly dry-eyed, accepting the death of yet another little Malfoy with an eerie calm. When the healer gave her the option of taking a potion to induce labour or letting nature take its course, she told them she wanted to get it over with.
Another Malfoy infant had come silently into a somber delivery room, and the following day, his parents left the hospital empty handed again. His mother had been settled into bed, where his damp eyed grandmothers fussed over her, while his father locked himself in the study to cry alone.
It was dark throughout the house when he made his way upstairs and slipped into bed beside his wife, whom he hoped was sleeping. But she tensed ever so slightly when she felt his damp cheek against her shoulder, and he knew she wasn't. Neither of them spoke, and eventually sleep took him.
It was rather fitful, however, and Draco awakened an hour or two later to find himself alone in bed. He actually felt somewhat relieved, believing that Astoria had crept off to do her own crying. He thought of going looking for her, to the nursery, or maybe to the attic, where she sometimes went to be alone, but if she wanted him with her, she would have woken him.
Shortly after dawn, he was awakened by shouting house elves and his mother's blood curdling scream. He ran to the side door, which his mother tried to block to him and his mother in law. Draco shoved past her, while Narcissa held back Cassandra, both of them crying and babbling nonsense.
Astoria was still in her nightgown. Her broken body lay in the roses, covered in tiny cuts made by the thorns. Blood pooled beneath her head, but he couldn't bring himself to turn her over to find its source. He looked up to see that she had gone to the attic. The curtains of the attic window fluttered in the breeze, spilling over the frame.
He knelt beside her, holding her hand which had long ago gone cold, until the aurors took him away. They took him back to the Ministry, and asked him accusations that passed as questions, such as "So you decided she was never going to provide you with a healthy heir and tossed her from the roof so you could marry someone else?" They had finally, mostly, stopped, when someone brought in the letter they found on Draco's desk. It carried plenty of its own illogical rambling accusations, declaring that obviously the gods were punishing Draco for his Death Eater activities by killing his children so if Astoria couldn't be with her babies in this world, she would go to where they were.
Someone had asked if he had written it, just for good measure.
They finally let him go home so he could plan a funeral.
That had been even more awkward than funerals usually were. Half of his friends weren't even married yet. None of them had any idea what to say to a twenty four year old man who had just buried his twenty two year old wife, after she killed herself, blaming him for the loss of their babies.
When everyone left that evening, Draco went upstairs, picked out his favorite clothes, and left the house.
He didn't go back.