Written in Stars and Shadows (Part 1): Grindelwald’s Cosmic Dance

In the world of Harry Potter, astrology seems to be kind of a big deal. Now, I’m the guy who’s never really gotten into all that star-charting business—honestly, it always felt like just another quirky thing wizards do, like my wife and her friends obsessing over horoscopes at brunch. You know the type–asking you to text your mom for your specific birth hour. But what if there’s way more going on here than anyone’s realized? In this essay, I’m diving into the celestial dance—the eclipses, the alignments—and how they might actually shape the story we thought we knew so well.

Spoiler: the stars might be pulling more strings than Dumbledore ever did.

I’m making a bold claim here: total eclipses, partial ones, even those weird ring-of-fire annular eclipses—they all had a hand in shaping the fates of some pretty important players in the wizarding world. Now, before you roll your eyes, remember that eclipses have been tied to prophecy and doom since forever—ancient cultures didn’t just shrug and say, “Cool shadow,” they saw these moments as cosmic plot twists. So, what if those celestial power moves quietly threaded themselves into the hidden history of Harry Potter? Stick around, because I’m about to show you how the wizarding world’s timeline might be less random magic and more written in the stars—literally.

Now, picture this: wizards packing their brooms and portkeys to chase down the path of totality—because why just watch an eclipse on TV when you can easily be right there in the cosmic shadow zone? It’s not just a magical road trip; it’s a tradition. And it makes sense—if the moon’s phases are tied to powerful magic, then standing smack in the middle of an eclipse? That’s like catching the universe at its most charged moment. Honestly, it’s not a stretch to think wizards knew this long before we figured out how to wear those stylish eclipse glasses.

This whole investigation started while I was deep in thought, spelunking in my usual canon rabbit hole, poking around Grindelwald’s story—his seer abilities, the mysteries swirling around his rise and fall. Then, out of nowhere, my wife throws on this movie I’d never seen called Apocalypto. Turns out, a solar eclipse saves the main guy from getting sacrificed, and later he has these prophetic dreams. Cue the lightbulb: what if there’s real magic behind these celestial events?

Funny enough, I’d actually witnessed totality myself just six months earlier—April 2024, my home right in the path of totality. It’s one of those sights you have to experience; no photo can do it justice. The color of reality itself starts fading, and then comes back like a sunrise on fast forward. So, a few months later, when prophecy and eclipses overlapped in my brain, it shoved a question into the spotlight. And honestly, when it comes to the Potter series, this might just be the best question you could hope to ask.

Were there any solar eclipses in 1945? Turns out, yes—two of them, one in January and another in July. Suddenly, things started to feel a lot less coincidental.

This is how I landed on July 9th, 1945 as the date of the final showdown between Dumbledore and Grindelwald. But let’s not sprint ahead just yet. First, we need to talk about the two solar eclipses of ’45, because not all eclipses are created equal.

Grindelwald, being the powerful seer he was, would have known these rare celestial events were golden opportunities for major magical revelations. The first eclipse that year happened in January, and Grindelwald likely traveled to South America to witness it with his own mismatched eyes. This one was an annular eclipse—meaning the moon was just a bit too far away to cover the sun completely, leaving a fiery ring of light. Not exactly the full blackout he might have wanted, but still plenty dramatic to stoke whatever plans were brewing in his head.

Okay, now let’s throw astrology into the mix—something I only started messing with halfway through this essay, but trust me, it actually turns out to be pretty handy.

The solar eclipse of January 14, 1945, carried themes of reckoning, transformation, and the collapse of old power structures. Occurring in Capricorn—sign of authority and long-term legacy—it marked a moment where past actions faced karmic consequences and new systems quietly began to take root. It symbolizes a turning point where legacy, ideology, and the future all hang in the balance.

If you want my wild interpretation, I think this could mark something like Grindelwald overthrowing a government, or even something more seismic like stealing Flamel’s Philosopher’s Stone. That Stone isn’t just an object; it’s the fulcrum of immortality and alchemy, the kind of power that could upend the entire world in the wrong hands. This feels like the moment where Fantastic Beasts 4 would slam the breaks and leave on a total cliffhanger.

Moving on to the second eclipse of ’45, which happened on July 9th—and this one was a total eclipse, at least in some parts of the world. Here’s where things get symbolically juicy: I’m proposing that the legendary duel between Grindelwald and Dumbledore went down on that exact day, right in Godric’s Hollow, in the graveyard where it all began. My research pins Godric’s Hollow not in England but in Wales, where the eclipse would’ve been about 50% total. Symbolically perfect, right? So, at the climax of this epic showdown, the sun is literally half-covered—casting a shadow over the moment—and Grindelwald experiences a massive vision. I’m betting that vision was his harsh reality check, the one that made him finally realize: ruling the world? Not in the cards for him.

If we want to dive into my own tangled web of “pretty out there” theories, here’s a doozy: I actually think Grindelwald was after something very specific—and way more personal than just world domination. I’m talking about creating a child with Albus. Yeah, I said it. And I even think he had the means to pull it off. But during that vision under the eclipse, he saw that they weren’t the ones destined to break that particular barrier. Instead, I believe he glimpsed fragments of a far-off future, one where it’s none other than Scorpius Malfoy and Albus Potter who achieve this impossible feat. That revelation—that his obsession was chasing a ghost—sparked the change of heart that eventually led him to quietly back down. Now, I know this sounds like sci-fi fanfic at first glance, but hey—this is just the tip of the iceberg. That story deserves its own full, very separate video.

When you look at the July 9, 1945 eclipse through an astrological lens, the themes jump out: home and ancestry, emotional transformation, unveiling hidden truths, fresh starts, and accepting responsibility. Sound familiar? Yeah, it’s basically the Grindelwald-Dumbledore duel in a nutshell—Godric’s Hollow is dripping with heritage, and at that very moment, Grindelwald gets hit with a vision that flips his whole world upside down. It marks the end of his grand plans and the start of something new—a path where responsibility finally takes center stage. Honestly, it’s too perfect to be a coincidence.

Next up on our tour: the total solar eclipse of February 1980, which was visible over Africa. Now, for witches and wizards, Africa isn’t exactly a trek to the other side of the world—portkey or broomstick, and you’re there in no time. So it’s not hard to imagine the Potters, Longbottoms, and Weasleys all making journeys to witness this rare cosmic event—maybe even for the first time in their lives. Here’s the interesting part: all three of these legendary moms would’ve been pregnant with their future sons during that eclipse. Coincidence? Maybe. But the symbolism and mythological weight feels a little too perfect to just shrug off.

The February 1980 total solar eclipse carries some seriously powerful vibes—new beginnings, fertility, emotional highs, and a collective sense of hope. Perfect timing for the Potters, Longbottoms, and Weasleys to be trekking to Africa to catch the show. With all three moms expecting, this eclipse isn’t just about babies being born—it’s about a whole new generation stepping onto the stage, ready to shake up the wizarding world. The emotional charge of the eclipse mirrors the fierce protective hope surrounding those pregnancies, while its ties to natural life cycles underline just how deeply magic and fate are synced up with the stars. Put it all together, and you’ve got a cosmic stage set perfectly for some truly pivotal moments in wizarding history.

I’d even wager that this eclipse was the exact day of Trelawney’s original Voldemort prophecy—since the timing lines up pretty well. If that’s the case, then Trelawney would have been a literal target that day, whether she knew it or not. Suddenly, Dumbledore’s mysterious meeting with her makes a lot more sense, and why Snape was sent to play spy on the side. It was all part of Dumbledore’s chess game—getting his hands on a crucial prophecy before Voldemort could snatch it first. Classic Dumbledore, always thinking five steps ahead.

If we start treating these eclipses as prime moments for seers like Grindelwald, suddenly we’ve got a handy cosmic roadmap to track his travels across the early 20th century. Picture this: North Africa in 1900, South America in 1919, and Asia in 1925. Each stop fits right into his relentless quest for power and global influence—because if you’re chasing destiny, why not follow the sun and moon as your guides? It’s a neat, plausible timeline that makes the man’s movements feel less like guesswork and more like an inevitable march of power written in the stars.

And guess what? That’s not even the end of what this little astrological detour can tell us about Grindelwald. The further I went down this line of thinking, the more obvious it became that Grindelwald could have been born under a total eclipse. So naturally, the next question was: did an eclipse happen in 1883, the year of his birth? Yup. You bet there was. This handy eclipse helps us nail his exact birth date to May 6th 1883, which fits perfectly.

Someone born on May 6, 1883, would likely be stubborn, focused, and determined, with a strong need for control and stability. They would have intense emotions and a deep desire to change the world around them. This person would be ambitious, driven, and charismatic, able to inspire others but also prone to conflict because of their strong will and passion. These traits fit well with Grindelwald’s complex personality.

But it gets better. Not only can we narrow down Grindelwald’s birth date—we can pin his location with unsettling precision. The 1883 eclipse was only visible from one place: smack in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. The path of totality didn’t touch Europe, or even the edges of any major continent. Which means, if he was born under that eclipse, there’s only one possibility: Grindelwald was born in French Polynesia. Let that sink in. The dark wizard of the West, forged in shadow, born quite literally on an island in the sun, on the most isolated spot on Earth.

Now you’re probably thinking, Wait—didn’t he go to Durmstrang? I thought he was German or something. And to that I say: these characters are never as straightforward as they seem at first glance. Especially not Grindelwald. The man’s basically a one-man passport stamp collection. For someone as infamously well-traveled—and slippery—as he is, this origin story doesn’t just check out. It fits. And with that one extra detail in place, his backstory practically writes itself.

By the early 1880s, French Polynesia was deep in the grip of colonialism — not exactly a great deal for the locals. The French had already staked their claim, turning what was once vibrant island life into a place ruled by outsiders with their own styled approach. Trade was mostly one-sided: raw materials and exotic goods shipped out, while French goods and culture were pushed in. Missionaries were busy rewriting traditions, and native voices were getting drowned out by colonial orders. For the indigenous people, it was a classic story of losing autonomy, culture, and control — definitely not a golden age.

So May 1883 rolls around, and baby Gellert is born beneath the shadow of a black sun. Conceived in a troubled union between his native Polynesian mother and a colonial father who, fitting classic villain archetypes, was likely far from honorable. His mother may have died in childbirth or even been murdered. I imagine that the boy was taken by his colonialist father, setting him on a dark and fateful path.

And so the eclipse passes, and probably nothing super dramatic happens next, right? Wrong. What happened next was one of the most cataclysmic natural disasters in recorded history. On the tiny nearby island of Krakatoa a massive volcanic eruption tore through the earth. The explosion that summer was so powerful it obliterated most of the island, sent towering tsunamis across the surrounding seas, and hurled ash and volcanic debris high into the atmosphere. This cloud of particles darkened skies worldwide, causing spectacular sunsets and a global drop in temperatures for years afterward.

Interestingly, Krakatoa isn’t that far from French Polynesia, and it actually fell right under the shadow of that 1883 eclipse—tying the cosmic drama above to the volcanic chaos below. It’s a perfect little nod to why Gellert didn’t stick around Polynesia for long—nature and fate basically forced him to move on. The perfect type of backstory for a baby to be sent away, a classic story archetype.

Now here’s where things start to spiral—in the best way. As I began sketching out what kind of backstory could possibly explain the elusive and conflicting energies behind “Mommy and Daddy G.,” I landed on another one of my trademark perfect questions:

Were there any famously brutal colonial figures stationed in French Polynesia around the relevant time period? And wouldn’t you know it—there was. Enter General Gustave Gallet. The timing fits, the vibe fits, and frankly, the name fits a little too well. Everything about him practically screams Daddy G.

But here’s where his story really set off alarm bells: Gallet’s presence in the region lines up perfectly with the reign of Princess Tuarii of Raiatea—a fierce, indigenous monarch who led resistance against French annexation in the 1880s. And while there's no historical record of a romantic entanglement between them, giving these two real-world figures a fictional romance—one that later explodes into full-blown opposition—feels like a deliberate mirror to the rise and fall of Dumbledore and Grindelwald. Instead of dueling ideologies over magical dominance, we have colonial domination and native sovereignty colliding in the Pacific. In both cases, a youthful passion goes sideways, and the cost is catastrophic. These two lovebirds didn't just fall out—they went to war.

So what began as a simple calendar curiosity unraveled into a mythic origin story—complete with eclipses, volcanoes, and colonial ghosts. And here's the thing: I didn’t set out to write this. I started with a passing interest in the eclipses of 1945 and 1980, wondering if they might offer some symbolic insight into the rise and fall of dark wizards. That was it. I had no intention of pinpointing Grindelwald’s birthday, no expectation of finding Krakatoa in the margins, and certainly no clue I’d stumble across a potential French colonial general named Gallet who might literally be Daddy G.

But that’s what happened. One clue led to another, and soon enough, the essay was writing itself—pulling me toward May 6th, 1883, like the moon dragging the tide. Which is why, for all the wild answers this piece uncovers, it also leaves behind a constellation of new questions. Because this wasn’t a one-off. The deeper I went, the more I realized this pattern wasn’t just hiding in Grindelwald’s past—it’s everywhere. Scattered across timelines and tucked behind character choices, major magical events and quiet turning points.

So yes, this was an origin story. But it’s not Grindelwald’s alone. It’s the tip of something much bigger—an invisible system of celestial gears turning behind the scenes of every wand flick, every death, every birth. It’s built into the bones of the series itself. But Rowling didn’t just hide it—she booby-trapped it with red herrings, deliberate narrative misfires designed to throw off anyone who got too close to the pattern.  This eclipse wasn’t the answer. It was the back door.