Rodolphus was thrust backwards as the ground erupted before him; stone and tasteful carpeting flew around him, and he paused a moment, vaguely pleased that the fire was still burning, even if chunks of stone bit at his neck, his chest, his ribs. He wasn't going to play these childrens' games any longer. He wanted blood.
Raising his wand, he stared with startling severity, and black erupted from the tip of the wood, at first no more than a mist.
And it grew, and it thickened, and it poured into a black, vile, cloud.
That cloud took the shape of a hellish wolf, and without thought or pretence, it bowed its head and dove forward, in search of prey.