It has been centuries since the Shepard cursed the Vampires, and Minerva still misses her brother. She sits upon his grave, feeling the foreign magic that her fathers says once ruled the land. Magic that had ruled the land when Vampires could still walk among men, and when the elves had still been enslaved.
It is strange, this magic, and Minerva feels it comfort her, as she makes flowers grow upon Rubeus' grave. Like a mother, it's soft and soothing, yet firm when need be. Minerva wonders if all old magic had been like this, though she doubts it. This place has seen life and death, in equal measures. A place befitting its status as a sacred monument to the god of death.
Sometimes, Minerva sees the children who had once roamed these halls, and she enjoys speaking to the four ghosts that remain here still. Like, Nearly Headless Nick, who weaves tales of such grandeur of a boy named Harry Potter. Or shy Helena, whose voice is a mere whisper, but has such a delightful laugh that Minerva enjoys drawing out. The Bloody baron who tells her about the follies of love, and how his own led to his fate; and above all else, the Friar who treats her as a beloved grandchild, telling her that she will one day do wonderful things.
She wishes that she could help them move on, but the dead do not like to be out of their comfort zones for long. The Shepard had tried long before her, to help them move on, but secretly, both he and Minerva are glad that they refuse to move on. Hogwarts is so lonely without them, and it is nice to have a constant when you happen to be immortal. The god of death will find his end where he found his beginning, and Minerva knows that she will find her beginning at his end.
After all, there's a reason graveyards are called Potter's Field.