Ten minutes later, covered in tiny scratches and gasping for breath, Percy hit the ground none-too-gracefully and ran for the door. He shoved the key into Ron's hand and paused to pant for breath as his little brother fumbled the key into the lock. Fred and George were yelling "Protego!" repeatedly in an attempt to fend off the still-aggressive keys; only about one in every three or four even remotely had any effect, but it was at least preventing them all from turning into pincushions, and as Percy couldn't seem to get enough air into his lungs to help them, he appreciated it.