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"Minerva, I have found the substance that was used for this catastrophe." Dumbledore said as he entered his office and placed a plastic bottle of fabric softener upright on his wooden desk. "But I am afraid I am no closer to finding the culprit. I suggest you go looking in your House, as others are now doing to theirs. Perhaps the guilty party will come forward on their own."

Minerva McGonagall was shaking her head. "I'd never have imagined something could have affected the Sorting Hat, that anyone could dare try! But after what happened... what it did Wednesday night, first refusing to Sort, then it's songs have gotten so silly... I could no longer doubt it. Albus, what are we going to do?"

"We have only until Sunday night left to do reSorting. Perhaps if we find the guilty party he or she can tell us what charm of jinx they used with this muggle potion and counter it. If not, then we will have to get through this year as best we may, and trust in the students to deal with everything in spite of difficulty. Come, McGonagall. We must search quickly."

As the two left, the Sorting Hat up on its shelf cracked an eye open, then struggled upright, hopped down off the high perch, fluttering to land after a short glide on the desk, knocking a few instruments askew as it did so. Then it waddled forward over to the bottle, gripped it in its brim like a pair of mittens, doffed the cap and tilted the bottle back to guzzle its contents.

Shorty after the Professors had reached the first dorm room, the school's magical PA came to life, with the improbably loud voice of the Sorting Hat singing:

"Immanuel Kant was a real pissant who was very rarely stable.

Heidegger, Heidegger was a boozy beggar who could think you under the table.

David Hume could out-consume Wilhelm Friedrick Hegel.

And Wittgenstein was a beery swine who was just as schloshed as Schloegel.

"There's nothin' Nietzsche couldn't teach ya 'bout the raisin' of the wrist.

Socrates, himself, was permanently pissed.

"John Stewart Mill, of his own free will,

on half a pint of shandy was particularly ill.

Plato, they say, could stick it away;

half a crate of whiskey every day.

Aristotle, Aristotle was a bugger for the bottle. Hobbes was fond of his dram.

Rene Descartes was a drunken fart. "I drink therefore I am." "

"Yes, Socrates, himself, is particularly missed.

A lovely little thinker but a bugger when he's pissed."

When they at last broke back into the Headmaster's office (the password had been changed to "Schnapps"), they found the drunken hat collapsed over the pickup, snoring away.

Dumbledore righted the spilled bottle, waving his wand to encourage all of the liquid back into the plastic container. "Minerva, I believe we have a problem. Who was able to get into my office and do this?"

Hogwarts One Half, Chapter 14