Neville awoke early in the morning of his first plant expedition. He rode on the back of a Thestral in a basket small enough on the outside to be strapped to the horse's bony body but large enough on the inside for him to sleep comfortably. "Wandless" by the Angry Mudbloods played as it must have all night. He'd fallen asleep while working. The herbarium samples he'd been studying were scattered around the floor. Neville stood and looked over the wicker walls. They were flying east toward the sunrise. The black silhouette of the mountains of Corsica stood against the red of the sky and the reflected red of the sea. Behind him the water and the sky were dark. The other baskets remained quiet, their occupants asleep.
He studied the skeletal head, black mane and ears of his Thestral. The others couldn't see the beasts. All his old friends could, but then they had fought at the Battle of Hogwarts. Neville was reminded of how different their lives had been than most people's. The thought was comforting; it explained a lot.
A breeze blew and with the smell of the sea came another complex and powerful. Neville realized what had woken him, -- the scent of Corsica. He had heard of this. The perfume of the island, was so strong it could carry for miles. The familiar fragrances of lavender and rosemary were mixed with those he'd had to breathe in and consider: the berry scent of myrtle and the sweet curry of l'immortelle d'Italie, and the honey, smoky, woody smell of rockrose and labdanum, a scent like flowers and leather at the same time. Finally underneath the sweet and earthy he detected the bitter notes of the mastic trees.
The basket tilted steeply as the Thestrals prepared to land. He sat, gathered his papers and inhaled the essence of the island.