Market Square lies in the center of Brynwell, each of the districts coming out from it like spokes of a wheel. The broad stone plaza is fileld with some small gardens, sculptures and fountians, but is mostly dominated by the towering Floo hearth whose green flames lick behind ironwork filigree. Benches circle the fireplace, worn smooth by decades of chatter, breakups, reunions, and secret handoffs of contraband pastries. Vendors cluster along the square's edges, some in permanent booths, others unfolding their carts at dawn, selling everything from pocket-charms to roasted chestnuts that float into waiting hands. The soundscape is constant, pigeons, buskers, and the ever-present whoosh of someone stepping in or out of the Floo.